


The Stars Are Silent

by maddaddam



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Jean Kirstein, Background Relationships, Bisexual Jean Kirstein, Deaf Character, Deaf Marco Bott, Drinking, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, French-Speaking Jean Kirstein, Gay Marco Bott, Jean Is A Little Shit, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nerd Marco Bott, Nonbinary Character, POV First Person, Partying, Slow Build, Tags May Change, Theater Nerds, and pretty much everyone - Freeform, background reibert, background springles, jean is not good at problem solving, not even friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 75,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddaddam/pseuds/maddaddam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschstein isn't exactly thrilled with the way his life is progressing right now. And why should he be?<br/>He's got a low-paying job, a freeloading roommate, and above all: a resounding indifference to what he should do for the rest of his life.<br/>That's why, when Marco Bodt steps foot into his life, he's more than willing to let the determined (yet increasingly interesting) stranger in. </p><p>A college AU that nobody really needs, equally filled with fluff, angst, and sarcasm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorry Seems to Be the Longest Word

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo everyone. I've never really written anything like this before but the plot bunnies wouldn't stop jumping around in my brain, so here we are.  
> Some mild warnings for this chapter:  
> casual mentions of death (though really sarcastic and not literal)  
> a fair deal of cursing (mostly Jean, surprising right?) but hey, they're college kids 
> 
> Enjoy!

I have this theory.  


Alright, backtrack a bit. It’s not even a theory. It’s more of a tediously thought out concept that I overanalyze when work gets quiet and I get tired of counting the scuff marks on the otherwise meticulously clean cashier’s desk.  


My theory is this: every person in the entire goddamned world has a little meter in their brains that monitors the number of annoying, ‘are-you-shitting-me’ things that happen as you go about your days. Maybe there’s some poor, disgruntled brain genie with the unfortunate task of watching the meter closely, making sure you’re still sane at the end of the day by steering you clear of potentially obnoxious interactions. When you’ve had a really shit day - and I mean like the shittiest of shit days - the little meter goes from green to yellow to red and little alarms go off and the brain genie has a nervous meltdown because the BS o’meter in the back of your head just sent the whole friggin brain facility into lockdown and suddenly you can’t breathe because all functions have been shut down momentarily as the monitor tries to cool itself off and the brain genie chugs a few margaritas to get you through the rest of the day.  


Eventually, the BS o’meter goes back to normal and the poor, disgruntled, genie in your head takes a deep sigh of relief because he doesn’t have to give himself alcohol poisoning just to keep you functioning today. Then you wake up the next morning and the cycle starts all over again. The BS o’meter starts at green, you talk to an annoying customer and it goes up to yellow, then BAM: A soccer mom walks in like she owns the place, asking for refunds or world domination or some baloney and that little dial goes all the way up to red.  


The reason I bring up the BS o’meter is because today, mine didn’t even start out at green. Oh, no. It started out at red. Fucking red. At six in the fucking morning. On a fucking Saturday. Why, you ask?  


Eren fucking Jaeger that’s why.  


Alright look, I’ll cut you some slack and spare you a rant about how much we hate each other's’ guts and give you the abridged version:  


Eren and I haven’t known each other for a very long time. About thirty months, if you want to be exact. We’re both in our second year at Maria State University but to tell you the truth, I don’t think we’ve ever had a class together. He’s studying pre-med and my lazy ass still hasn’t declared a major. So while Eren takes his takes his weird, hellish, medical classes, I stumble around with the grace of a newborn giraffe taking whatever courses my guidance counselor tells me to. The only reason I even know the bastard is through my roommate, Armin.  


Armin is a pretty okay guy. He’s quiet, keeps his side of the room orderly (which is not a phrase that can be used to describe my side of the dorm), and extremely convenient to have around when homework is kicking my ass. He’s also undecided in his major, which for some reason makes me feel slightly less awful about the fact that I still have no clue what I’m doing with my life.  


I guess most importantly, Armin doesn’t really care what I do; if I come home way past curfew drunk as a sailor or if I blast Guns N’ Roses when I’m pissed off about work, he just doesn’t care. And A-fucking-MEN to that. The last thing I need is a roommate who questions my lifestyle just as much as I already do. _The last thing I need_ is a roommate like Eren Jaeger.  


See, there was a slight mix-up at the beginning of Freshman year. Not with rooming assignments, god forbid, but with the actual beds themselves. Garrison House - where Armin and I humbly reside - has two options for bedding: you can either get a bunk bed for your dorm to maximize space, or a single mattress for each student. Usually they try to pair students up so that two kids requesting a bunk bed get stuck together, but Administration kind of screwed it up for Armin. Instead of the single bed he requested, Armin got a bunk bed. That’s fine and all, except for the fact that I wrote _Jean Kirschtein, single bed_ on my rooming application; bringing the mattress count in our room up to three while the body count remains a dismal two.  


...Except for when Eren comes to sleep over.  


Eren’s one of those people who will make any excuse to not be by himself. I’m not exactly sure why. That clingy bastard. His assigned roommate (I guess) is on some varsity sports team (baseball maybe?) and is pretty much always out of town; leaving Eren to his own devices a fair 60% of the time. And who does he come to? Armin. Of fucking course he comes to Armin that little shit. And thus the sanctity of our dorm room has been desecrated by the smell of Eren Jaeger’s dirty socks and god-awful taste in contemporary music.  


So on this particular morning my alarm goes off as usual and the first thing the brain genie does upon taking in my surroundings is scream bloody murder because not only is Eren Jaeger sprawled out on the top bunk of Armin’s bed, he’s also naked.  


The second thing the brain genie does is suggest I throw something at his stupid face while I still have the tactical advantage of being fully conscious.  


“What the FUCK?!”  


“Put some fucking clothes on before I have to wash my eyes with bleach, Jaeger.”  


“Fight me, Kirschtein,” Eren replies before nonchalantly flipping me off and cocooning himself in his stolen blankets. Some of his hair still pokes out at the top and _god do I wanna cut it off while he sleeps to get revenge on his sorry ass._  


I refrain. For now. The genie not so gently reminds me that I have work today, and that any physical altercations between me and the freeloader could potentially wake up Armin. Knowing that the BS o’meter is already reading DANGER: ZERO SHITS LEFT TO GIVE also helps in not beginning a war before I even have to deal with my usual headache at work. I woefully decide to get up without taking some of Eren’s shaggy brown hair with me.  


Shuffling out of bed as quietly as possible, I slowly begin my morning routine. I grab my shower caddy and make my way to the boys bathroom around the corner. It’s less than luxurious, but at least it’s empty at the crack of dawn on a Saturday. I shower as fast as humanly possible, avoiding the icy air as much as I can before changing hastily into my jeans and t-shirt inside the shower stall to spare the freezing assault of unheated bathroom air on my skin.  


The genie makes an angry appearance once again on my trek out of Garrison House and onto campus. This time, he takes a studious look at the already bursting BS o’meter, nods his head and politely informs me that the weather is terrible.  


_Fuck you, and fuck the weather_ , is my wholesome reply.  


The cold is the first thing I’m able to register upon stepping out of the dorm’s main exit, followed closely by the wind, and then the unfortunate realization that I am wearing nothing more than a simple long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and sneakers.  
Not wanting to risk another encounter with the menace in my dorm room, I decide that a nice walk in the brisk January air will do me some good and start the brief (yet increasingly miserable) hike to work. 

.

..

...

Studio 104 isn’t exactly what you’d call an ideal place to be employed. Or really just an ideal place in general, actually.  


The Studio is a rundown old shop sitting peacefully among a row of nearly identical - and equally as touristy - shops providing customers with similarly pointless commodities. (One store a few doors down sells nothing but Christmas ornaments all fucking year. How they manage to stay in business is beyond me.) Thankfully, Studio 104 has slightly more decorum than some of its neighbors, but the chipping paint and psychedelic font on the window still make me cringe whenever I unlock the painfully heavy front door to open up for the day.  


Sorry, you probably want to know what _exactly_ Studio 104 is.  


To be completely honest: I have no fucking clue. The owner is this very eccentric glass-blower who lives above the shop and honest to god never shows their face except to help me calm down the concerned fire department officials who show up at least once a week because some experiment in the basement went horribly awry. My job is to sell some of….whatever the heck it is that they make down there along with art from some other locals. The owner - Hange, their name is Hange - even lets me set up a sketchpad in the back so I don’t die of boredom waiting while retired old ladies come in and browse without the intention of actually buying anything.  


All and all, it’s not a terrible set-up. It pays ok, it’s generally quiet - except for when the fire department gets involved, and above all: it gets me away from Jaeger’s annoying ass.  


This morning though, I am way less than thrilled to be here. Serving my time in a mediocre job, in a mediocre college town, in a mediocre city, in my pathetically mediocre life.  


_Save me from this eternal suffering_ , I whine to no deity in particular. Unsurprisingly they do not deign to respond, so I flip the obnoxious ‘Sorry, We’re Closed!’ sign around, turn on the ambient lighting, and head towards the familiar desk/cash register Frankenstein hybrid in the back. It’s only marginally warmer back here than it is at the storefront, so I crank the thermostat on the wall to temperatures resembling more humane living conditions. My scrawny ass lets out a figurative sigh of relief as the ancient heaters whir to life.  


I’m just settling into the dinosaur of a desk chair with my sketchbook when I hear the first explosion.  


_Please please pleeaaassee save me oh nameless deity in the sky_ , I think once again before patting myself down for my phone in the off-chance I need to make a call to the Fire Department.  


The steps leading down to Hange’s basement are by far one of the creepiest aspects of working at Studio 104. The rest of the building is splintery wood; from the floorboards, to the doorframes, even my weird Frankenstein desk. But I think the basement has long since proven that it won’t conform to the rest of the building, or society, or anything else really. Instead of wood, the steps are limestone. And slippery. And about as straight as Freddie Mercury in the way that they meander in a spiral down to the basement.  


I try my damndest not to trip as I slide down the steps, my Converse unsteady as they navigate the fucking Alice in Wonderland level of fucked-up that are these stairs. A significant string of curses is on its way out of my mouth before I’m even halfway down and it’s escalated into quiet screaming by the time I reach the bottom. I’m ashamed to say that the screaming doesn’t get any quieter when I take my first few steps into the dimly lit basement. If anything, it gets louder. Maybe even a little girlish. But you can’t prove that.  


The reason it _may possibly_ get kind of high pitched and frantic is a justified one. Oh, the basement isn’t on fire or anything. That would be too normal.  


Nope, it’s my boss that’s gone up in flames.  


Hange stands in the middle of the basement, completely calm despite the blaringly obvious fact that the gloves they use when blowing glass are currently ablaze looking for all the world like the fiery pits of Mordor have taken up residency on their hands. The rest of the studio seems calm around them however; oven on but not smoking, tongs put away, paints scattered all over the floor. You know. The usual.  


It takes my brain a while to process all of this without the BS o’meter in my head bursting into flames to match Hange’s hands, but somehow I manage. Poor genie. He needs a raise.  


“Do you uh,” I pause, gesticulating widely with my phone, “do you need me to call…?”  


Hange seems to finally take notice of my presence in their weird little cave and they turn quickly at the sound of my voice echoing off the cramped, paint splattered walls of the basement. They grin maniacally and to my honest to god horror, they begin to laugh.  


The thing you have to understand about Hange is that there are very few things that they actually bring themselves to care about. Gloves on fire? Nah. The gender binary? Nope. Jean’s generally safety and well being? Fuck that shit. On most days, I’m pretty much fine with that. If they want to burn themselves so that they resemble a five foot tall piece of charred bacon, that’s fine by me. If they want to flip the bird to gender norms, then by all means, do it. And goddammit, if they want to scare the ever-loving shit out of me on a daily basis with their constant experiments, then I’ll find a way to not care about that, too.  


It’s just on days like this, when my BS o’meter is already close to bursting from Eren’s general awfulness and bad weather, that I can’t deal with this much nonsense.  


“Oh no no no no don’t you worry about that, dear. I was just trying out a new technique I saw on Youtube,” Hange finally replies, flapping their arms like they’re trying to helicopter their way out of the basement until the smoldering on their gloves finally recedes into uneven crackling and the occasional ember. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel my blood pressure falling back down to normal at the sight of a seemingly alright boss.  


“That’s um…,” I search for the right word to describe the situation at hand (pun intended), “that’s a relief. I h-heard the explosion.”  


Jean Kirschtein you smooth bastard. I mentally slap myself for even bringing it up. Of course they’re gonna go off on a rant about what exactly caused said explosion now. Stupid stupid stupid.  


“Oh that? That was just-”  


“A stupid mistake on your part, four eyes.” Both Hange and I turn our heads at the sound of the familiar voice. “You tryin’ to blow us up?” Levi asks irritably, clicking his tongue and straightening out his collar from where he leans against the door of the dark-room in the corner. Seeing him standing there, so casual despite Hange’s still smoldering hands, helps me breathe a little easier.  


Or maybe it’s the vents turning on and sucking the smoke out of the air, freeing my lungs from a prison I didn’t even realise they were in. One of the two.  


“Humph. You’re no fun.” Hange shimmies the gloves off their hands and disposes of them on their catastrophe of a work desk. Levi wrinkles his nose at the sight and I wonder, once again, how he can stand working down here when he can’t even stand seeing dust on the cashier counter upstairs without having a meltdown.  


“Tsk. You’re little experiment interrupted my work schedule,” the angry little gremlin huffs before grabbing the vandalized gloves from the desk and tossing them in the trash bin. Soon they’re bickering about whether or not Levi even has a schedule or something equally as uninteresting. I zone it out.  


Levi and Hange have an...interesting relationship, to say the least. Hange technically owns Studio 104, but it’d probably have burned down years ago if it weren’t for Levi’s diligent cleaning and constant nagging. He doesn’t even do it as a favor to Hange or anything, he’s just obnoxiously paranoid as far as I can tell. And as much as his pompous ass annoys the living daylights out of me, there’s no denying he does well for himself. While Hange works on their weird glass-blowing/witchcraft, Levi walks around Trost taking pictures with his clunky Nikon. It’s some artsy bullshit I don’t really care about or understand, but I guess people like it well enough because he’s always dressed to the nines - even at six in the morning on the weekend with absolutely no one around to see him.  


I guess it’s a symbiotic relationship, like those clownfish and anemones or those butterflies that drink turtle tears. Levi gets a place to clean, and Hange gets someone to monitor them like a scrupulous and pissed-off babysitter. Everyone wins.  
Except me. I just get a dollar above minimum wage and ample time to sit around feeling sorry for myself while my boss and their friend try not to blow me to smithereens.  


“Hey, Undercut.” My pity party comes screeching to a halt at Levi’s uncreative nickname for me. “You got somewhere to be? Or you gonna just stand and stare?”  


My hands instinctively curl into fists, ready to pummel the Oompa-Loompa for snapping at me on an already shitty morning, but the brain genie holds me back once again. _A dollar above minimum wage_ , he says. _You promised your mom you’d stop getting into fights after high-school_ , he says again. I sigh in resignation, grumbling a very brief and insincere apology to Levi before clambering my way back upstairs to get back to my glorious job of doing absolutely nothing for the rest of the day.  


I’ve just managed to make it to the top of the steps when I notice him.  


I should take a moment to remind you of this, but it’s a Saturday. And it’s half past six in the morning. And college kids are notorious for sleeping until late afternoon if they can get away with it. And all these things are running through my head, trying to process into a coherent thought as I look over at the obviously college-age, obviously awake man standing at the other end of the store.  


“Can I help you?” I grump. No, it’s not the most polite thing I’ve ever said….but I can’t bring myself to care.  


Mr. Earlybird doesn’t seem to care either, because he doesn’t turn around or make any indication that he heard my not-so-welcoming greeting. I squint a little at the back of his jacket, _maybe he has earphones in?_ but I don’t see any from where I’m standing only twenty feet away. With a somewhat exasperated sigh, I turn on my heel and head back to the sketchbook I left haphazardly strewn across the desk.  


_Guess I’ll just sit and wait it out_ , I think; mildly irritated at being ignored by the stranger. I flip open to a new page in the neglected sketchbook, absent-mindedly sketching out some abstract squiggles and stars and shit. _God, what am I, five?_ I scribble it out and start over on a blank page.  


I’m just getting into it when I hear the stranger speak for the first time.  


“Oh! Oh, gosh...have you been here the whole time?” Poor kid looks like someone just kicked a puppy in front of him, he’s so caught off guard by my sorry ass sitting in the back of the store. I smirk slightly at how much I’ve managed to intimidate him without even trying. _Look at you, being a badass._  


Looking up at his face briefly, I forgive him for ignoring me earlier. He just looks so concerned, like I might bite his head off if even so much as a hair is out of place. His cheeks and ears are flushed bright red while his hand rubs nervously at the back of his neck. I do notice, however, that the stranger has kept his eyes locked on mine this whole time. _Fucking stop that_ , I think, _you’re giving me the damn heebeejeebees._  


“Just a few minutes,” I can’t look up at his face anymore with the way he’s staring at me, so I lean back down to resume drawing. “Did you need something?”  


I expect him to respond now that he’s realized that there’s another person in the same building as him, but I’m met with uncomfortable silence. Jesus, does this kid EVER listen?  


Slamming my hands down on the worn surface of the desk and standing up so fast my chair jerks out from under me, I look back up into his eyes….and feel immediately awful for the slight outburst.  


Mr. Earlybird has removed his hand from the back of his neck in favor of clutching his hat between his fingers like it’s his lifeline or something. Chocolate brown eyes are widened to hilarious proportions and for the first time I can actually see what the kid looks like. He’s taller than me (dammit) with slightly broader shoulders and definitely warmer features. Where my face is admittedly pretty pointy and sharp, his is round and welcoming. I even notice a cluster of freckles along his cheeks.  


“Oh shit I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-”  


“I’m really sorry,” he gets out, swallowing thickly, “I-I didn’t hear uh what it was- what it was you said a second ago.”  


_Nice fucking job Kirstein. Pretty sure making your customers cry isn’t in your job description, you ass._  


My face feels like it’s on fire from how embarrassed I am. He’s not crying, thankfully, but I can tell he’s pretty damn uncomfortable with my sudden display of anger. He’s still clutching that stupid hat between his hands; so hard that his otherwise darker skin is on the verge of turning white.  


“Hey, look, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you like that really I’m sorry it’s been a rough morning and you didn’t hear anything I said and-” I cut myself off because I’m rambling. I’m so bad at this whole people thing.  


“N-no that’s ok.” His eyes are still wide as dinner plates, but his knuckles are turning back to their normal skin color. He has freckles there, too. “I should try to pay more attention, ya know?”  


“Yeah,” the uncomfortable laughter bubbling up in my chest starts hurting with how awkward it is. The guy must sense it too because one of his hands is immediately returning to rub at the back of his neck while the other finds its way into the pockets of his coat. _Could you be_ any more _socially inept you fucking pathetic excuse of a human, Kirschtein?_  


I clear my throat as nonchalantly as I can. “So um, can I like, help you with something?” It’s involuntary, but I raise my voice a bit and turn to face him straight on to make absolutely sure he hears me this time. No more grumbling into my shirt collar for the rest of my life, I swear.  


“Yeah, I’m kind of looking for something really specific and my director told me to check this place out.” The stranger chuckles nervously, waving ambiguously to the shelves of glass sculptures and concoctions that he was standing in front of earlier.  


“Alright, what are you looking for?” I slowly step out from behind the desk where my sketchbook lies abandoned once again. Nodding at the guy, I gesture for him to follow me towards the shelves so we can look through them together.  


“Ok,” he pauses and chuckles again, his cheeks flush pink and I am suddenly able to see a shit ton of freckles I didn’t notice before. “Ok, don’t laugh. You know those really hokey glass figurines of puppies and kittens and stuff? I need like, fifty of them.”  


That’s. That’s not what I was expecting. What the fuck does this guy do with his free time?  


“Uhhhh. Yeah we have some over here,” I point behind me as I speak. My mind is still trying to come up with possible situations in which a presumably college-aged man would need fifty fucking glass beagles.  


_Maybe he’s got some really weird fetish for cheesy crap_ , the previously silent brain genie supplies.  


_Shut up_ , is my reply. I seriously can’t imagine this twenty-something stranger with his dorky pom-pom hat clutched innocently in his hands getting off to an excessively large collection of glass knick-knacks.  


We stop in front of the shelf I had pointed at earlier, which to my dismay is covered in an alarming array of different glass creatures and tooth-achingly-sweet scenes of children playing and lovers handing off flowers to each other. How Hange can manage to make this shit is beyond me.  


“Great! Thanks!” The stranger smiles at me for maybe a second too long before turning back to the shelf and brushing his fingers along a few of the figures.  


“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be over here if you need to check out or anything.” I’m just turning on my heel when he opens his mouth again.  


“Sorry, did you say something?”  


I gape at him in disbelief for a second. _Are his ears stuffed with candle wax or something?_ “I said that I’ll um, be over there if you need me.” _Seriously, three times now?_ “You know like, to check out and stuff.”  


“Oh. Oh great! Yeah, thanks,” he flushes darker again, seemingly perplexed by his slip up.  


I decide to nod to him again instead of saying anything this time. I shuffle my way back to the cash register once he returns it with a smile and rub my arms with my hands as I plop my butt down in the icicle of a desk chair behind the counter. Man, do I hate this cold. _Fucking cold shit fucking FUCK why didn’t I grab a jacket at least?_  


The sketchbook in front of me suddenly looks like a very tempting distraction from the cold, so I pick up my pencil and run it in absent-minded strokes across the paper I had been working on before Freckles arrived. I don’t even like art all that much. Or maybe I just don’t like _my_ art. But I guess I’ve been doing it for a long time. I used to jump at the chance to take art classes in high school, even a few in college, and I think mom even managed to wrangle me into a few summer classes as well. Looking down at the sketch I’ve been doing practically on autopilot, I can’t help but be thankful for her bizarre obsession with my flimsy drawing ability. Not because I’ve dramatically improved or anything, god no, just that she didn’t have to encourage it. I’ve known tons of kids who wanted to do art in college, but their parents nixed it and coerced them into more ‘profitable programs.’ Sounds like bullshit to me. Life’s too damn short to warrant doing shit you don’t want to do.  


_Oh, but Jean_ , the genie pipes up once again, the little shit. _You’re not doing what you love either._  


Well then. _You can fuck right off into the deepest circle of hell, you absolute fucking walnut._  


It’s as I’m thinking of new ways to insult my own conscience that the stranger decides to return to the desk. There’s an armada of glass figurines that he cradles cautiously in his t-shirt, exposing a sliver of his stomach and part of his hipbone. Unlike me, he seems to be equally tan under his shirt as he is everywhere else. And there's freckles there, too. Not that I’m thinking too hard about it or anything.  


Freckles gently begins to place the glass atrocities on the desk in front of me, smiling apologetically up at me every once in awhile as if to say, _look, I’m really sorry about my strange obsession with horrible things_. I return his smile anyway - mostly because it’s hard not to smile back at this guy, he’s just so damn cheerful - and wrap up the figures in tissue paper, marking down prices on a sheet of paper as I go. A good five minutes later and I’m punching the numbers into the dinosaur of a cash register that Hange seems to have pulled out of the nineteen-fucking-sixties while the man digs around for his wallet.  


“Okay that’ll be $162.39,” I say, making sure to look him in the face because I still refuse to mumble around his presumably freckled ass.  


“Here,” he fishes around in his wallet before pulling out nine twenty-dollar bills and handing them to me. It takes me a while, but I manage to get the cranky machine working and am just about to hand him his change and receipt when I realize I’m still really fucking curious as to why he needs this many glass figurines.  


“So um….why do you need so many of these things?” I ask, pulling my hand back slightly from his own outstretched palm so he has no choice but to answer me.  


“Hmm?” His eyes flicker up to my face then and I can’t tell if he’s asking because he didn’t hear what I said or if he’s just wondering why some nosey punk is questioning his lifestyle choices.  


I decide to go with the latter and ask him again.  


“Oh, they’re not for me. They’re props for a play I’m helping out with.” He smiles warmly, and I finally cave and give him his change.  


“Jesus, what kind of play needs this many glass monsters?” It’s out before I can censor it, and I immediately slap a hand over my mouth in embarrassment. _You dick. What right do you have questioning the fine arts when you spend your Saturday’s scribbling in your sketchbook like a schoolgirl? He probably loves this stupid play._  


Fortunately, the stranger seems to find my question humorous, because he lets out another one of those contagious laughs that starts deep in his chest and ends with a breathy giggle from back of his throat.  


“Would you believe me if I told you it’s called _The Glass Menagerie?_ ” He says between giggles. What is this guy, five?  


“That would definitely ease my suspicions about you being some crazy hoarder, yeah.” His eyes crinkle up happily and I can’t help but respond with another smile of my own at his enthusiasm.  


“I’m glad you think so highly of me, uh….” He scans my chest, probably looking a name-tag.  


“Jean,” I offer, holding up my hand in a mock salute.  


“Marco.”  


“Marco, then. Do you go to school here or something?” I ask, mostly because this guy seems like pleasant company and I can feel the BS o’meter in my brain slowly starting to tick back down from code red to code yellow every time he offers up another smile.  


“Yup. I’m a-” Marco keeps talking but I can’t hear a word because suddenly Hange is crashing up the stairs yelling enthusiastically over their shoulder to a disgruntled looking Levi. Marco doesn’t seem to notice and keeps talking. _What the fuck is with this guy?_  


“Jeeeeaaaaannnnnn,” Hange whines, “tell Levi he has no sense of humor.”  


“Levi shouldn’t need to be reminded of the obvious,” I snide over my shoulder. Marco has finally stopped talking, suddenly taking note of the two new people in our presence.  


“Oh, sorry. I guess I was rambling,” Marco practically whispers into his chest as that same darned hand comes back up to his neck. I tell him it’s ok, and he nods but he doesn’t stop rubbing at the dark hairs at the back of his neck. We glance awkwardly between each other and the floor or the ceiling or anything really while we both scramble for ways to somehow fix this trainwreck of a conversation. Clearly, we’re both at a loss.  


Hange (fortunately) decides to save the day. I take a quick second to praise whatever god is up there for Hange’s divine intervention in this terrible conversation.  


“Hello! Welcome to Studio 104, thanks for stopping by!” They’re practically bouncing up and down like a kid on Christmas morning as they speak. Marco seems mildly taken aback by their enthusiasm - if the way his eyebrow twitches is any indication - but he quickly schools his expression and smiles brightly back at the stranger bobbing happily in front of him.  


“Of course! It’s no problem, the work here is really spectacular.” At this, he turns around to take in the way the colored glass paints the walls with dazzling and flickering images in the still-early morning sunlight.  


“Why thank you! I’m so glad…” Hange starts rambling and I zone out immediately; unwilling to put up with this optimism before at least two cups of coffee. Marco responds with something, and Hange says something back until they’ve started up a rhythmic pattern filled with an eye-watering amount of pleasantries. _This guy’s too polite_ , I decide after he compliments Hange a fourth time.  


“That’s a lot of glass you got there,” Levi suddenly pipes up from where he stands with his arms folded behind Marco. Hange turns to look at the grumpy little man over his shoulder, then flicks their eyes down to Marco’s hands to see how much he’s carrying in the brown paper bag I gave him.  


Marco, apparently, doesn’t get the hint, because he smiles nervously at the way Hange’s eyes keep darting between the bag and his face. He even turns to glance in my direction as if to silently ask why my boss is checking him out like he’s a piece of glass she’s about to stick in the oven.  


“Hey, kid. It’s a simple question,” Levi says again, but Marco still doesn’t make any suggestion that he hears what’s being said. Instead, he stares between Hange and me, awkwardly coughing into his fist and shifting his weight between his feet as he waits for one of us to speak.  


Hange and I exchange a look instead, even glancing back to Levi - who’s turning a menacing shade of red at Marco’s apparent rudeness. Oh boy, is he pissed. I even notice Hange shaking their head minutely at the smaller man, but it’s clearly in vain because suddenly Levi is storming up to Marco and spinning him harshly around to face him. Marco flinches violently at the sudden hand on his shoulder and I even think I hear him squeak as he’s abruptly spun around to face Levi.  


The image the two make is almost comical, what with Marco standing a good head and a half taller than Levi, but still shaking under the iron-clad grip the older man has on his shoulder. It’s like watching one of the Munchkins from Oz beat up Dorothy.  


“I’m talking to you, kid,” The Munchkin practically snarls and Marco visibly pales at the way his teeth are bared. To my right, Hange is shouting at Levi to stop being rude to their customers but he shakes them off and continues to stare down at Marco.  


“I-I’m so s-sorry I didn’t- I didn’t-” the poor kid’s grabbing for something to say now, stuttering miserably and looking over his shoulder to where I’m standing behind the desk. Our eyes lock briefly and a wave of protectiveness hits me in the chest like a suckerpunch at the way his terror reflects in his brown eyes. Before I can really process what I’m doing, my hand is on Levi’s arm and I’m not-so-gently pulling him away from Marco, pushing his grumpy ass towards Hange. They immediately grab his arm and suddenly the two of them are descending the stairs while Hange lectures and Levi throws insults over his shoulder.  


I turn back to Marco to make sure he’s not like, in shock or something from his confrontation with a man about half his height. Marco’s eyes are still terrified but he’s smiling shyly at me and his breathing has evened out a bit more. All good signs.  


“I’m really sorry about Levi, he’s just….” I struggle for the right word, “well he’s a pain in the ass is what he is.” Marco smiles a little more confidently at that, so I clap my hand on his shoulder once.  


“It’s ok, I didn’t take it personally. I didn’t even realize he was talking to me.” Marco shrugs, voice as casual as if he were talking about the weather.  


I squint at him then, because that doesn’t make any sense. Levi was the only one talking, the store was empty, and damn it’s not Levi could have an indoor voice if he tried. I decide to chalk this up to a joke, thinking Marco must just have a really peculiar sense of humor.  


“Ha, what are you, deaf?” I chuckle, punching the man before me lightly on the arm.  


“Yes.”  


Dead. Silence. You could hear a pin drop in this place. Heck, I can even hear Marco’s breathing as he stares down at me with those friendly brown eyes.  


_Oh you done fucked up._  


“Wh-what?” Marco’s bright smile is suddenly gone, replaced with an uncomfortable grimace that makes my cold and soulless heart clench in my chest. He doesn’t exactly look away from me, but he can’t seem to meet my eyes either.  


“Oh- oh god I’m so sorry I didn-”  


“It’s fine,” He says, but I don’t like the tone his voice has taken on. It’s too dark and sad for the bright facade he’s still trying to put on by smiling at me. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_. Marco leans down to retrieve the bag full of glass he had placed at his side when Levi grabbed him and turns towards the door.  


“No Marco I’m-” I cut myself off, realizing there’s no way he can hear me with his back turned to me. _Goddammit Kirschtein! You pathetic son of a bitch, grab him before he leaves!_ I start to act on that thought when Marco reaches the door and throws a somewhat pathetic smile at me over his shoulder.  


“Have a nice day, John.” And then he’s gone. Pulling on that dorky hat with the pom poms and walking briskly out into the cold morning air with his hands shoved forcefully in his pockets. Marco’s out of my sight before I can even blink.  


I stand kind of stupidly in the middle of the shop as I try to process everything that just happened. _You just laughed at a deaf person for being deaf, jackass_ , the brain genie snarks.  


“I KNOW SHUT UP!” I roar out loud, wishing desperately for a silent mind for once. I whirl back around to my desk and slump down into the chair, not even caring that it’s fucking colder than a polar bear’s balls. Groaning in shame and agony, I repeatedly slam my head against the desk and curse myself for being such a moron. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You’re an inconsiderate bastard for hurting that kid’s feelings. I hope I get hit by a taxi on my way home. I deserve it. I hate myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._  


The welt on my heads starts to get unbearable after a few minutes so I stop my self-flagellation, press my cheek down on the scuffed up oak, and wait for death. I’m staring off into the distance as the blood rushes towards the growing bruise on my forehead when it hits me.  


“My name isn’t even John.”


	2. Things Are Gonna Change, I Can Feel It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean tries his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warnings for this chapter:  
> more discussion of death (still, really just jean being whiny and cynical)  
> like ONE mention of recreational drug use

To say that the remaining few hours at work that day are easy would be a colossal lie. But to call them miserable would be the understatement of the century. I spend a fair majority of my shift sitting on my ass with my gaze fixed steadily on the front door hoping beyond hope that Marco comes back and forgives me. He doesn’t show. Obviously. I’m not stupid enough to not realize how much of an insensitive prick I was to the poor kid.

The remainder of my time is spent banging my head aggressively against the splintery wooden desk while a constant string of ‘ _stupid stupid fucking STUPID_ ’ spills from between my lips.

Levi eventually shows up to save me from the listless assault on my forehead, albeit in the most Levi-esque way imaginable.  


“If you get any blood on that desk, you’re cleaning it up yourself.” I look up at him through trauma-bleary eyes. He’s got the same scowl, assertive stance, and steely gaze as always, but there’s something kind of off with the way his voice rings in my ears. Might be the blooming concussion, though.  


I sit up in my chair, wincing as the blood begins rushing to different parts of my body. My eyes water a little, but I manage to pull off a somewhat menacing glare in Levi’s direction. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Levi immediately drops his hands from their position across his chest and lowers his eyes to the floorboards instead of meeting my increasingly hostile glare. Now it’s my turn to stand and stare at the man. Oh, how the tables have turned.  


“You’re an ass,” I state matter-of-factly.  


“He was annoying me.”  


“You can’t attack people for annoying you if they can’t help it!” I yell. Levi still refuses to look at me and I attribute his change in attitude to him finally realizing why Marco was ignoring his constant yapping earlier.  


He sighs eventually and looks up from whatever pattern he’s been burning on to the floor with his laser vision. His eyes finally meet mine, and I’m guessing that this is his perverted way of apologizing for exploding at Marco earlier.  


Unfortunately for the gremlin, it’s not enough for me. The guy needs to be brought down a few pegs, and I’d be more than happy to offer my services in that regard. I’m _thisclose_ to screaming in his face about it when Hange comes up the stairs and I have to aggressively remind myself not to attack my boss’s friend in front of my boss if I want to keep raking in the dough. Levi’s safe. For the time being.  


And dammit does he know it too, because the corners of his thin lips are curling up ever so slightly at his serendipitous immunity. _Fuck you, sir._  


I’m admittedly pretty close to decking Levi in the face when the brain genie speaks up for the first time since I relieved my forehead from its physical assault. _Get your fucking act together, Kirschtein. Tell Hange you don’t feel good and take the day off if you’re feeling too damn miserable about yourself, you slacker!_ the genie screams; probably between gratuitously large sips of vodka to keep him sane as my temper threatens to burst the BS o’meter.  


My lungs expand almost painfully and I force my fists to uncurl as I rip my gaze away from Levi and turn to Hange. They don’t seem to notice our little stand-off (praise the lord), and instead is preoccupied settling a few more glass atrocities on one of the shelves. Looking over, I can see a terrifying array of humanoid features etched into bleeding glass with estranged limbs jutting out at awkward angles. I step closer anyway - despite how much the figures scare the shit out of me just to look at - and tap Hange on the shoulder to get their attention.  


“Hey, uh Hange,” I try to look as tired as I possibly can. It’s not very hard with the lack of caffeine in my system and the welt the size of Wisconsin forming on my face.  


Hange hums in my direction and I take it as permission to continue my request: “I’m not really feeling too good, can I take off early?”  


At this, my eccentric boss finally turns around to face me. Their eyebrows immediately furrow - presumably at the angry red menace on my forehead - and they nearly lose the grip they have on a horrifying sculpture of a girl trapped in a….crystal? Fuck if I know.  


“Oh, my, yes of course. You should put banana peels on that. I read that somewhere,” they respond and I nod, pretending to look more injured than I actually am so they don’t change their mind and keep me trapped in this hell hole for another seven hours.  


“On it,” I lie and walk shakily back to hang up the cheap apron I’m supposed to wear. _Gotta milk it for all it’s worth_. I throw a sarcastic salute over my shoulder when I catch Levi staring at me and finally, _finally_ , I reach the front door and rush out into the freezing air.  


As predicted, the streets are pretty much deserted; no one’s stupid enough to be walking around in the cold this early. Once I’m far enough away from Studio 104 that I don’t think Hange and Levi can see me, I speed up and start jogging towards the university. I reach into my back pocket at a busy intersection to check the time on my phone: 9:57. Armin’s probably up by now, studying at Starbucks or something. _Perfect_.  


I fire off a quick text to my roommate despite the protests from my frozen thumbs that they want to stay tucked inside the sleeves of my pitifully inadequate t-shirt. The campus coffee shop isn’t that far away, I can probably make it there in five minutes if I hurry; and right now hurrying is sounding strangely appealing to my frozen ass.  


True enough, my roommate has beaten me there and is already buried under a frightening mound of school supplies by the time I bust through the door. I shake the sleat from my hair and the numbness from the rest of my bones as I make my way over to Armin. He only seems to notice my presence when the chair I pull out angrily makes a god-awful screeching noise on the tiled linoleum of the coffee shop. Startled blue eyes briefly meet mine, but immediately flick back down to the large chemistry textbook propped up on the table.  


“Mornin’, Jean,” Armin mumbles while highlighting something in the massive tome he holds, “you’re off work early today.”  


“And you’re studying for a class that hasn’t even started yet,” I snip, tapping the table with my phone to pull his attention away from the nuclear fission reactions he’s still staring at. Fucking nerd.  


Armin sighs and finally snaps the book shut forcefully (not before marking his page with a sticky-note, I notice) and really looks at me for the first time since I came in. His eyes widen immediately, no doubt taking in the way my shirt is clinging to my frame and the disaster that is my soaked clothing and windswept hair. Fortunately, Armin’s smart enough to realize that asking why I look like such a mess is a moot point, so he just exhales sharply through his nose and hands me the hoodie draped over the back of his seat with an exasperated eyeroll and another pointed glare at my disheveled facade. I pull it on gratefully and mumble a ‘thank you’ in Armin’s direction before sitting down across the table from him. The jacket’s too small on me, and honestly it kind of chafes my arms where it rubs against my shirt, but it’s not like I’m gonna turn down an extra layer when I’m already freezing my balls off even in the well heated coffee shop.  


“So,” Armin crosses his arms and clears his throat, “is the drowning-sewer-rat look making a comeback?”  


Ah, yes. Armin’s trademark sass. I’d almost forgotten the reason I liked the kid to begin with.  


“Forgot to bring a jacket to work today,” I say more to my chest than to Armin himself. FUCK it’s still so cold. _Fuck fuck fuck! I hate winter_.  


“And you aren’t there because…?”  


“I wasn’t feeling good.”  


We both stare at eachother and I can tell he’s not buying it. Armin’s too perceptive to let me off the hook like Hange did. One of his eyebrows is reaching towards his hairline while the other pushes down until it’s practically brushing his long eyelashes. His arms don’t move from their crossed position on his narrow chest. Damn it, I’m gonna have to tell him. I can only imagine how well that conversation will go.  


_Hey, Armin.  
_

_Yes, Jean?  
_

_What would you do if you accidentally laughed at a deaf stranger for being deaf?  
_

_Why, I’d fling myself off a bridge, Jean.  
_

_Ah, yes. How could I be so silly? Please excuse me as I fall to my certain demise at the bottom of a river.  
_

Armin’s still staring at me, and I realize that I must have zoned out thinking about possible structures to throw myself off of.  


“Um…” I start, but Armin cuts me off by pushing his steaming cup of coffee in my direction. He still refuses to look away, but I appreciate the gesture and it somehow makes the idea of spilling my guts to this man a lot less terrifying.  


“I fucked up, Armin.” I take a sip of the coffee offered to me and grimace. _Ugh, way too sweet_. I keep drinking anyway.  


When Armin makes no indication that he’s about to speak, I sigh and tell him about my morning. I skip the part about Eren and I squabbling and jump to Marco directly. How he didn’t ever seem to hear me, the way he smiled so shyly whenever I had to repeat something, the subtle habit he had of scratching at the back of his neck whenever he felt uncomfortable, and eventually how Levi had straight-up attacked the kid for not hearing him.  


Armin hangs on to my every word; scrunching his eyebrows when I tell him how Levi nearly made Marco pee his pants and only bothering to interrupt when I describe how frightened he looked when he’d finally realized Levi was saying something.  


“Did this Marco happen to have freckles?” Armin asks.  


“-and then Levi was like- wait what? Freckles?” I notice that his face is so scrunched up that I can hardly see the blue of his eyes anymore. _Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit shit shit SHIT. Don’t tell me they know each other. Don’t tell me I just insulted one of my roommate’s friends…._ “Uh, yes. Yes he did. Do you….know him?” As much as the thought of insulting Armin terrifies me, I know that lying to him will only make things worse.  


“Tall? Darker skin? Probably couldn’t hurt a fly?” Armin continues, ignoring my question entirely. His eyes are almost completely hidden behind his eyebrows and sour expression.  


“Y-yeah that’s him.” _God fucking dammit Kirschtein. Just spare yourself from this conversation and jump off a bridge already_.  


“Hmm. So you’re upset about the way Levi treated him?” Armin says, stealing the coffee cup back from where it’s been held in my death grip for the past few minutes.  


_It’s now or never, Jeany-boy._  


I take a deep breath and try to recover some of the heat that Armin so brashly stole from me. I have to tell him. Fuck. I’m too sober for this.  


“Well I may have kind of possiblymadeit worse….” I stutter and try my best to avoid his disapproving glare. Armin doesn’t respond, so I take it as his way of urging me on and spill out the rest without thinking. “IlaughedathimforbeingdeafitwasajokeIdidn’tknowohmygodI’m- aterriblepersonpleasekillmeIdeserveitohmyGOD.” I go back to my self-flagellating habit of hitting my head on the table despite the painful throbbing that still hasn’t ebbed from earlier and the countless glares being thrown my way by the shop’s patrons. Armin remains silent for a few, painful minutes of self-loathing, but he eventually cracks and rests his chemistry textbook under my head before it can collide with the table another time. I still don’t look up at him.  


“Look, Jean. Marco’s my friend. And I’d like to think I know him well enough to say that your joke probably didn’t hurt him as much as you think it did.” The honesty in his voice gives me pause and I roll my head to the side to look at him. The fact that he isn’t actually looking back at me makes it a little easier for me to voice my next question.  


“How do you know him?”  


“Theater,” Armin says nonchalantly as he loosens his blonde hair from his ponytail and re-ties it with a few deft flicks of his wrist, “I work the soundboard, remember? Marco does lights and props sometimes; or at least he is for the upcoming play.”  


“The glass catastrophe or something, right?” Armin seems pretty surprised that I even know so I go on to explain my sudden knowledge of anything remotely cultured. “Marco was shopping for props.”  


“ _The Glass Menagerie_ ,” Armin corrects me, but there’s no venom behind it. If anything, he seems surprised that I remembered anything theatrical that was directed at me. “But, yes. That would be it. I don’t personally care for it, but it’s one of Marco’s favorites.”  


“Oh.” I groan and flop back onto the cool surface of the chemistry textbook. Somehow, hearing the name only makes me feel worse about my own unrefined tastes.  


“Hey,” Armin slaps my arm, “don’t worry about it too much, okay? Marco’s a really tough guy, and you have more important things to worry about….like the fact that class starts on Monday.”  


“You really think he’ll be okay?” I ask; partially because my ears are starting to ring from head trauma and I’m not sure if I heard him right. To my surprise, Armin laughs. I think. The ringing in my head is still pretty loud.  


“Yeah, really. Marco’s too nice to hold your own ignorance against you, and besides,” he nudges me with the coffee cup, “it’s not like he hasn’t had to deal with stuff like that before.”  


“Thanks, Armin. You’re a lifesaver!” Armin insulting me completely flies over my head and I feel like I can breathe for the first time since Marco waved goodbye to me. _Waved goodbye….and called me John?_ I spring from my seat with every intention of sprinting back to the dorm and crawling back into bed to hibernate for the rest of the day. “I’ll wash your hoodie when I get back to our room!”  


“Yeah, yeah, have fun,” he chuckles before returning to his studious note taking and highlighting. I’m almost out the door before I remember.  


“Hey, Armin!” I shout. He looks up with an amused smile on his face and several other customers glare in my direction. “Yes, Jean?”  


“Tell Marco I’m sorry if you see him, okay?” Armin nods and a smile tugs it’s way onto my usually stoic face. _You’re going to fix this, Kirschtein. You’re going to fix this, and Armin’s going to help_.

.

..

...

Sunday proves to be pretty fucking miserable, despite my newfound clarity on the Marco situation. I wake up around one in the afternoon to Eren blasting some awful pop music from his phone and we squabble for the rest of the day. He even spends the night again (lucky me!) since he and Armin have the same class first thing in the morning. It takes every ounce of my wimpy self control to stop myself from tossing his stolen bed out the window of our third-story dorm.  


Monday is only slightly less terrible, and I attribute it largely to Eren and Armin’s absence from the room when I wake up. The weather outside is still depressing as hell, but at least the brain genie reminds me to take a coat with me before I can head out the door. He also advises me to look in the mirror for a few minutes, just to be on the safe side. _You should try and make a good impression, since you’re obviously so bad at it_ , he chides. I resign and stand with my hands on my hips in front of the floor length mirror Armin insisted on installing in our dorm.  


My reflection is as disinterested as I am in this whole ‘ _making good impressions_ ’ affair, and it shows in my lazily thrown together outfit, disgruntled scowl, and fly away hairs. I figure it doesn’t look too bad, though. The red and white baseball shirt I have on doesn’t clash with my black skinny jeans and it even kind of matches the faded crimson of my Converse. My MSU hoodie, like all hoodies, goes with everything, so at the end of the day, I’m feeling fairly confident with how put together I am. For me, I mean. Armin would probably lecture me on how the beanie I pull over my ears to keep them from freezing off looks stupid with my coat and how it’s only going to make my hair worse when I take it off. Armin can jump in a frozen lake for all I care.  


I finally head out the door after a few more seconds scrutinizing my appearance and throwing a shit-eating wink at my own reflection. Luckily, my first class of the new semester is just across the quad from Garrison House, though I don’t think I’ve ever been inside this particular building. I slow my pace a bit just to take it in; to try and remember the details. Red brick, large windows, green awning, flat roof. _You got this, Jean. Just go in and get it over with_ , Mr. Genie pipes up again once he realizes I’m just stalling to put off the inevitable.  


With a disgruntled sigh, I pull myself up the stairs and open the glass door at the front of the building. My class is on the second floor, so I make my way there as slowly as I possibly can in the hopes that I’ll walk so unhurriedly, I’ll miss class entirely and I won’t even have to go at all. English has always been my least favorite subject.  


The door to room 236 is wide open, and half the seats in the lecture hall are already filled with equally tired and disinterested college students nursing Starbucks cups like holy grails and complaining quietly amongst themselves. Their voices echo off the high ceiling and their faces are illuminated by light from the large windows facing out over the rolling hills of the quad that stretches out behind the building. There’s an attractive asian girl in the front row staring at me as I step through the door, but her piercing grey eyes only hold my attention for a fraction of a second before I spot it: the dorkiest hat in the history of ever.  


“MARCO! HEY! MARCO!” I sprint up the stairs to where the hat is lying abandoned on his desk with little regard to how fucking stupid I look running full speed towards a guy who doesn’t even know me. My backpack bounces uncomfortably against my spine and I have to grip the straps to keep it from flying off entirely as I take the steps two at a time.  


About halfway up, it registers that this is probably a terrible idea. Marco can’t even hear me, right? And what am I gonna say to him? _Sorry I’m such a fuckup, sit with me so I can make it up to you?_ No fucking way. The ideas get worse and worse until they’re nothing but a swirling vortex of negativity in my brain. _Oh my god, what am I even doing?_  


Marco spares me from following that train of thought down an even more depressing road. He spots me sprinting towards him like a man possessed about halfway up the stairs and he immediately begins to clear some space for me next to him. He even flashes me a small smile once he recognizes my face. That saint.  


I pull up in front of him as soon as I reach the desk he’s cleared for me, panting and clutching my backpack strap protectively. Surprisingly, Marco’s still smiling up at me from his seat, though his eyes keep shifting to look to either side of my wimpy frame; almost like he doesn’t think he’s the one I barreled up the stairs like Sonic the Hedgehog for.  


“Hey! Hey, man,” I get out between breaths, making sure to look him in the eye as I speak. I read an article over the weekend that said that’s what I’m supposed to do. _Please, please, please be right on this one, oh gods of WikiHow_. The article said that some deaf people can read lips, and I may have (possibly) gone out on a limb by assuming Marco could, too. My heart nearly explodes when my assumption is proved correct.  


Marco smiles wider and gestures to the chair next to him. I gratefully take it and throw my backpack on the ground next to me as I sit down. Half the class is looking our way, but I can’t bring myself to care. They’ll get over the weirdness of the situation. It’s not like screaming at a stranger then proceeding to sprint up the stairs at him is all that unusual in college, right?  


“So hey,” I turn my attention back to the only college student I particularly care about at the moment, “I wanted to apologize for Saturday, and um….for just now I guess. Running at you like that probably wasn’t the best way to redeem myself for being an ass the other day.” I try and smile, but it ends up as more of a grimace that I’m sure does nothing to enhance my sweaty and disheveled appearance.  


“Oh, it’s okay, John.” Marco smiles. _Jesus, does he ever stop?_ “Armin told me how torn up you were about it, you don’t need to apologize.”  


“Uh actually it’s-” I am cut off by the sound of nails on a chalkboard and I immediately clap my hands over my ears to ward off the offending sound. Marco chuckles at my discomfort, and I smile back at his slightly self-deprecating sense of humor, even if it is at my own expense.  


The source of the unholy noise, as it turns out, is our new professor: an angry looking bald man with deep set eyes and a pointed brown beard. He looks out over the sea of trembling students with a slightly amused smirk on his face before turning back to write his name on the board in his appropriately harsh handwriting. I turn to Marco while the professor’s back is turned and find that he isn’t staring at the man at the front of the classroom the way I expected him to. _He probably can’t read lips from this far back, dumbass_. I’m about to ask him when Constipated Mr. Clean claps his hands loudly to rid them of chalk and reaches for a stack of papers sitting on his desk. The board behind him reads: _Professor Shadis_.  


“Alright maggots!” His voice is somehow worse than I imagined, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in the room to flinch at his guttural bellowing. “I hold in my hand your syllabus for the entire semester. It’ll tell you everything you need to know about grading and all that crap that I have no desire to discuss with you. Lose it, and I’ll fail you. Forget to look at it, and I’ll fail you. Any questions?” Unsurprisingly, no one raises their hand. Shadis nods appreciatively and hands the stack of papers to a kid in the front seat for him to pass around the auditorium. _God, I’m so glad I didn’t sit next to that asian chick in the front row. Shadis is fucking nuts_.  


“Now,” another obnoxiously loud clap of his weathered hands, “we’re going to start this year with a little ice breaker activity. I, personally, have no desire to get to know you, but the people sitting next to you might. God knows why. You’ll each be grabbing one of these papers and interviewing the person next to you. My assistant will be picking them up at the end of class, if he ever decides to drag his lazy ass over here, and yes, you will be graded on how thoroughly they are completed. Don’t fuck around.” With that, Shadis grabs a second, slightly less intimidating stack of papers and hands them off to someone in the front to pass them back to the rest of us. Marco and I, being at the very back of the lecture hall, are the last to get ours.  


I flip over the paper in my hands, hoping that maybe this will be some kind of joke but I am sorely disappointed. There are about twenty questions on both sides with just enough room between them to jot down an answer. Marco seems equally as disinterested, and I even think I see him frown for the first time.  


“Do you wanna go first, or should I?” He sighs, pulling out two pens and handing one off to me without question. I thank him and immediately write my name along the top so I’ll actually get credit for doing this stupid, campy assignment.  


“Go ahead,” I lean back in my desk and indicate with a wave of my pen that he’s welcome to start quizzing me whenever he’s ready. He looks back at me for a moment before he turns back to the paper with a slight downturn to his lips.  


“I um….well. I’ll probably need you to spell some of these things for me,” Marco says to the paper before he looks back at me with those huge brown eyes to get my approval.  


“Yeah man, no problem. Just ask away.” He nods and readies his pen with the focus of a surgeon during a delicate operation.  


“Full name?”  


“Jean Kirschtein,” I say. Marco stares at me with the most perplexed look I’ve ever seen on a human being before. His eyebrows turn up and the freckles on his forehead practically disappear from how much he’s scrunching up his face. He has the J written down already, but that’s all he seems to have deciphered. I point to where I’ve written my name on the top corner of my paper to help him out.  


“Oh! Your name’s not John!” He laughs as he copies my name down on his paper in his much neater handwriting. “I’m so sorry, I could’ve sworn you said your name was John the other day!”  


“Don’t worry about it, bro,” I laugh along with him to relieve some of the tension from my shoulders, “everybody gets it wrong,” I add once he’s slid his paper over to me to spell check his handiwork. I give him the thumbs up and we continue on with the interview.  


It’s all pretty basic and in reality, does very little but make me realize how truly boring I am. Marco stops me every once in awhile to ask for clarification, but other than that he’s relatively silent as he studiously writes down my responses.  


“And what did you want to be when you grew up?” He asks, turning to me so he can read the answer off my lips.  


“An astronaut,” I say automatically, “I used to fucking love space. My room was covered in those glow in the dark stars and I had posters all over my walls with planets and supernovas and stuff on them.” I laugh before adding in, “I think I went as an astronaut every year for halloween until I was like, twelve.”  


I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks at how nerdy it all is, and half of me expects to look up and find Marco staring at me disapprovingly with his eyebrows furrowed and his freckles hidden by the creases of his frown. But of course, he doesn’t. Because he’s Marco. And I honestly don’t think the kid has a judgemental bone in his body.  


“That’s so cool! I never went through a space phase, but I kind of wish I did,” Marco says, jotting down my response and smiling as he goes. I can’t help but notice that he’s one of those people whose smile reaches every part of their face. It radiates out from his cherry red lips to light up his skin with a light blush and illuminate his eyes with genuine happiness. _Sunny_ is the only word that I can think of to accurately describe it.  


“Ok, these next few are really easy,” Marco says once he’s satisfied with his writing, “let’s just blow through them as fast as possible, ‘kay?”  


“Hit me with it,” I sling back.  


“Favorite food?”  


“Coffee.”  


“That’s not food, Jean.”  


“Is too, smartass. Keep going.”  


“Fine. Favorite genre of music?”  


“Classic rock.”  


“Favorite type of book?”  


“Mmmm….sci-fi.”  


“Okay,” Marco says and gives me the most serious expression he can muster. It’s oddly charming with how out of place it is on his otherwise friendly face, “this next one is pretty personal, so don’t answer if you think you can’t handle it.”  


“Lay it on me, baby,” I say, exaggerating the way I crack my knuckles and role my neck to show just how fucking ready I am for this.  


“Favorite color?”  


“Marco, you’re gonna have to take me out for dinner before I can answer that,” I reply breezily and we both laugh at how dumb this whole thing is. He covers his mouth when he laughs, almost like he’s afraid I’ll judge him for it, but I punch his arm lightly to silently reassure him that I won’t. Marco laughs a little more freely after that.  


"Ok, ok, your turn,” Marco says between chuckles after I tell him that my favorite color is navy and that I don’t have a favorite movie. I dramatically grab the pen he offered me earlier and prepare to write down his responses.  


“Name?”  


“Marco Bodt.”  


“Birthday?”  


“June 16th.”  


“Do you have any siblings?” I ask him and hold my pen over the blank space where I’m supposed to jot down his answer. I lift it from the paper when Marco doesn’t immediately answer, thinking that he probably couldn’t read my lips, but he’s looking at me thoughtfully when I turn to look at him.  


“I have five,” he says, and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he lists off their names to me, “Mía, Sofía, Santino, Victoria, and Isa.”  


“Holy shit, how can you deal with that many people?” Their names are probably spelled wrong, but I write them down anyway as he speaks, “I can’t even manage having one roommate, what the fuck.”  


Marco laughs at me. “I like it! You never have to worry about getting bored and there’s always someone to talk to, no matter what.”  


“Seems like you’re the younger sibling, then,” I say, assuming he only talks to them so much because he’s the youngest and goes to them for advice. Fuck if I know, I’m still an only child.  


“Nope! Second oldest.” I let out a low whistle at that. I can’t even imagine that responsibility when the most caring thing I’ve done is watered the neighbor’s plant for a week while she vacationed in France.  


We continue back and forth a little longer with me writing as he talks. I find that the way he speaks is inherently relaxing, though Marco seems embarrassed by the way he sounds, claiming that it doesn’t feel right to voice things out loud when he can’t even hear what it is he’s saying.  


“It’s like talking underwater,” he notes, “I know I’m saying stuff, but I don’t know for sure if I’m saying it right.” I nod at that and assure him that he can talk with his hands as much as he needs to, even if I can’t understand any of it. That seems to cheer him up dramatically, and he begins signing almost immediately while he answers my questions. I even pick up on some of it. Marco teaches me the sign for orange when he tells me his favorite color, and laughs when I butcher the sign for candy after admitting that he has a massive sweet tooth. I’m just picking up on how to say ‘my name is’ when Shadis’ voice announcing the end of class breaks through my concentration. We pack up our stuff together and drop off our worksheets with the sleepy looking teacher’s assistant before heading out the door, shoulder to shoulder. We’re still laughing when Marco announces that he has to get to theater, but he’ll see me tomorrow. He waves at me as he jogs down the path leading to the fine arts buildings while I make my way towards the science labs on the other side of campus.  


.

..

...

I’m so fucking pleased with myself that even Dr. Smith’s monotonous southern drawl can’t bring down my mood as I force myself to sit through ninety minutes of him talking about the joys of physics. _Nothing can ruin this day for me_ , I think once we’re released from Smith’s stuffy basement classroom.  


Nothing of course, except one Eren Jaeger.  


One Eren Jaeger who happens to be lying on my bed belting Britney Spears in nothing but a neon green tee-shirt and boxers when I open the door to my room.  


“ _OH HELL NO!_ ” I shout, storming over and immediately yanking the bedding out from underneath the demon so he falls face first on the floor. “ _That_ isn’t happening. Not today, not tomorrow, not even when I’m dead and gone, Jaeger!”  


“But Jeeeaaaaannnn,” the demon pleads, blinking his deep green eyes back up at me, “I’m too high, can’t come down, losing my head spinnin’ round and roouuunnd….” at this he rolls along the floor until he hits the foot of Armin’s bed, giggling wildly at his half-assed performance.  


“I don’t care if you’re higher than a fucking kite, Jaeger, get the hell out of my room.”  


“Armin said I could.”  


“Armin isn’t _here_. Now get out before I call campus security on your ass and get you arrested for trespassing. _Again_.” I toss the blanket back on my bed and open the door to our room, stomping the entire time. Eren tries to give me the puppy dog eyes, but his wide-eyed stare has got nothing on Marco’s and I resist it easily.  


“ _Fiiiiiiinnnneeee_ ,” he whines, pulling on a pair of sweatpants to hide the sharp contrast between the white of his boxers and his coffee colored skin. “I’ll see you later anyway.”  


“Like hell you will,” I slam the door in his face as soon as he’s outside and let out a sigh of relief once I hear his footsteps start to retreat down the hall. _Thank god that’s over_.  


I walk back to my desk, figuring that I should probably crack open the syllabus Shadis was so passionate about. The first page details his grading process. _60% of your grade will be dependent on your performance on both your mid-term and final exams_ , it reads. _What the fuck_. The second page goes over a list of assignments and their due dates, but the first isn’t due for another week so I move onto the last sheet of paper where our reading list is printed out along with book prices.  


_King Lear, A Raisin in the Sun, A Doll’s House, Death of a Salesman, Pygmalion, and….wait a minute_.  


_The Glass Menagerie_ is the last book on our list. My mind immediately flies to Marco, and I wish I had his phone number so I could point it out to him before tomorrow.  


A painful uneasiness suddenly settles over me and I push the rolling chair away from the desk with a violent jerk. _That’s what friends do, right? Send each other things that the other likes?_ My stomach twists at the thought that I’ve never had the urge to send someone anything before. I flip to my contacts and scroll through every conversation I’ve ever had with Connie or Sasha and nope. Not once have I seen something and showed it to them just because I thought they would like it. Is this what having a friend is like? I toss that thought around for a little bit, simultaneously disregarding it and begging for it to be true. Do I even want to be this guy’s friend? Of course I do, he’s fucking great. Does he even _like_ me? He didn’t push me away earlier….and we hung out during class, right? That’s what buddies normally do, isn’t it?  


_Fuck, Kirschtein. Could it be that you’ve finally made a friend?_ The brain genie says as he watches the thought bounce around my head chaotically.  


I pause and give it a final once-over before I dignify him with a response.  


_You know what?_ I tell him, _I think I have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean's trying, he really is. That being said, he still has no idea how to properly handle being respectful of Marco's deafness. He's learning, but he's going to mess up a lot. Please bear with him, he's not perfect.


	3. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean is awkward and angsty as heck.

Waking up Tuesday morning is simultaneously one of the most exciting, terrifying, and irritating things I have ever done. The second I gain full consciousness, my stomach flips at the odd combination and the brain genie freaks out because a mix of such emotions can’t possibly coexist without popping the top off the BS o’meter like a bottle of champagne.  


The excitement catches my attention first; before I can even open my eyes, actually. Thoughts that I might have gone out and made a friend reawaken with a vengeance and I can’t keep the dopey smile off my face when I realize how long it’s been since I’ve felt this good about interacting with another human being. My heart beats a little faster as I remind myself of all the things I want to talk about with Marco the second I see him today. Soon enough, the rest of my brain catches up with the giddy part, and the nagging voices in the back of my mind make a reappearance to remind me of all the possible negative outcomes yesterday could have had. They stayed silent through the night (thankfully), but they spring back into action the second my mind flits back to Marco. _He may have just been humoring your sorry ass_ , they say. _Marco’s probably still mad and just didn’t know how to tell you to fuck off_.  


My thoughts (both negative and wonderful) are easily ignored when I finally realize that my alarm isn’t yelling obscenities at me to wake up. I look at the timer on my phone, wincing when I turn it on to find that the brightness is on high. It makes looking into the sun sound more appealing than checking the time. 7:30. _Why is it so early? Why am I even awake? Wait. What’s that sound? Oh. That’s why_.  


I should mention that my first class isn’t until ten o’clock. And it’s half past seven right now. Which means _I_ don’t have to be up for another two hours, at least. But you know who does have to be up at such an ungodly hour?  


Eren.  


Or more precisely, Eren and his fucking ukulele.  


“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” he says as his fingers dance over the strings of his pathetic excuse of an instrument.  


“Fuck off, prince charming,” I respond before pulling the covers back over my head to drown out the twanging of what might just be the most appalling cover of Uptown Funk I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.  


“Wow, rude.” I hear Eren shuffling around on the top bunk as he continues to play. I hope he falls off and breaks that stupid thing. I hope I never see another ukulele in my life.  


“I’m not particularly inclined to be polite before I’ve had at least one cup of coffee,” I curl up tighter and pray that for once he’ll take the hint and shut up so I can get back to sleep.  


He doesn’t, of course. I don’t know why I even tried.  


“Wow, a great attitude and _such_ a pretty face. What did I ever do to deserve you, Jean?” Eren’s voice is far too close for comfort now and I remove my blanket shield to find him standing at the foot of my bed staring down at me. I’m more than a little irritated at his sudden disregard for my personal space and let him know by swinging one of my legs out so that it violently collides with his thigh.  


“FUCKING SHIT KIRSCHTEIN,” he yelps as he jumps away to avoid my flailing limbs, “THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!”  


I spring up so that we’re standing nose-to-nose. Well, nose-to-chin actually. I’m still more vertically gifted than the little punk, much to my delight.  


“ME?! YOU’RE THE ONE SINGING KUMBAYA AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING!”  


“IT WASN’T KUMBAYA IT WAS UPTOWN FUNK, YOU HORSE-FACED BOOB!”  


“I DON’T HAVE A-”  


“ _Ahem_.” Eren and I both stop immediately once we notice that we aren’t the only two bodies in the room.  


Armin stands at the open door to our dorm; his hair still damp from his shower, and his towel still flung carefully over his forearm. The way his scrutinizing blue eyes scan over us makes me embarrassingly uncomfortable and I am immediately reminded of all the times I was caught standing on the kitchen counter trying to reach the candy jar that Mom thought she had hidden so expertly. Glancing over at Eren, he seems to be feeling the same. His face is bright red (that might be from anger, though) and his leg is doing that obnoxious tapping thing it does when he thinks about something for too long or when I hold a lighter under his ukulele and threaten to turn it to dust. Armin continues to glare unflinchingly in our direction.  


Look, I’m not going to deny it: I’ve definitely got a temper. I bottle things up until the pressure builds and builds and the top pops off at supersonic speeds. Always have, probably always will. But that’s _nothing_ compared to Eren’s temper; Eren doesn’t even try to bottle it up, he just takes something at face value and explodes over it. It’s a miracle we haven’t strangled each other yet. Or lit each other’s beds on fire. Or stabbed the other in their sleep. You get the idea.  


Armin, on the other hand, is the picture of self-control as he stands in the doorway with his free hand on his hip, looking for all the world like a disappointed nanny who just walked in on two of his kids fighting in the dirt over a bouncy ball. The look on his face makes the brain genie shy away in terror and my first instinct is to retreat along with him, but the determined scowl on Armin’s face books no arguments. I can only imagine how much worse my suffering will be if I try to run from him at this point.  


“Gentlemen,” he says with his hand still on his boney hip. _Oh, we’re so fucked_.  


I expect him to say more, and I think Eren does as well because we both flinch a little in preparation for what is sure to be a painful verbal assault by our roommate. It doesn’t come.  


Instead, Armin walks over to his dresser and pulls out a very fashionable peacoat while simultaneously hanging up the towel he brought with him to the showers. Eren and I watch - paralyzed by fear - as he draws out a matching scarf and throws it around his neck with a sarcastic flip of his hair before leaning down to grab his bookbag. Armin looks back towards the two of us and for the first time I realize that Eren and I are both clinging to each other like schoolgirls; my hands still fisted in the fabric of his sweater and his palm still suspended mid-strike to slap the shit out of me should the need arise. I release his shirt stiffly once Armin’s disapproving glare becomes too much, but Eren refuses to lower his hand from its defensive position near my ear.  


“Eren.” Armin’s request goes unvoiced, but Eren acts immediately. His hand drops (slowly, and with a great deal of difficulty, but still) and he turns on his heel to replace the ukulele in his hand with his backpack, sneering at me as he lowers the instrument into its puny case. Armin clears his throat again and before I know it, they’re both out the door.  


_Shit, you dodged a bullet_ , the brain genie says, piping up from his hiding place behind the BS o’meter where he took refuge from Armin’s hostile scowl. I can’t help but agree with my poor, traumatized conscience. If Armin and Eren didn’t have class, that could’ve ended with an hour long lecture about how tired Armin is of facilitating a constant battle between two hot-headed idiots. _Thank god for eight o’clock chemistry_ , I think.  


I finally collapse back onto my bed once I can no longer hear their footsteps retreating down the hallway, heaving a deep sigh when I realize that all of the heat I had accumulated as I slept was gone. Dammit. Looks like going back to sleep isn’t an option.  


I check the time again, wincing because I still forgot to turn down the brightness. 7:45. One hour and forty-five minutes before I actually have to get up for class. I spend a few more minutes lying on my back, contemplating how to spend my time before I eventually come to the conclusion that I am unable to think properly without at least _some_ caffeine in my system. With an objective in mind, I am finally able to motivate myself enough to physically roll myself out of bed and drag myself to the showers. I grab a pair of jeans and a faded Jimi Hendrix t-shirt so I won’t have to walk back down the freezing hallway in nothing but a towel.  


My mind immediately begins to wander the second I step into the shower and the hot water hits me in the back. _Was Marco really just humoring me? Taking pity on me? Figuring out a way to politely tell me to beat it? Armin_ did _say he was too nice to hold my stupidity against me, but….nobody’s that nice right? I certainly wouldn’t forgive myself for what I did._  


_Jean_ , the brain genie adds, _you never forgive yourself for saying stupid things anyway. Remember yo-_  


_Yeah, yeah. I got it_ , I cut the snoopy bastard off before he leads me down a well trodden road in my mind. It’s too early to start with the depressing train of thought I’ve ridden thousands of times. _Coffee first, self deprecation later_ , I tell him. It seems to shut him up for the time being.  


I rush out of the shower and into the change of clothes I brought, tossing my pyjamas and towel into the room haphazardly and without looking when I pass by. I’ll have to clean it up later, but right now my top priority is caffeine, not house cleaning.  


Garrison House, despite its many, _many_ flaws does have one saving grace: a full service coffee machine on the first floor. I shuffle towards it as quickly as I can manage in my half zombified state, pouring a cup for myself almost instinctually before chugging it down in one go. It tastes like jet fuel and burns my tongue, but it’s all I need to overcome my early morning wake-up call. A distinct lack of coordination makes it difficult for me to do so, but I manage to refill the styrofoam cup with the bitter liquid before deciding to head towards a set of armchairs lining the wall of the lounge. I sink into one of the more well-maintained chairs - purposefully avoiding any furniture stained with suspicious looking substances - and pull out my phone. I flip open the Facebook app and let myself scroll through a sombre feed filled with sob stories of terrorist attacks and cop shoot-outs. Oh, and those weird videos where they teach you how to whip up complicated foodstuffs that I could never manage on my pitiful college kid budget. Hate those things.  


I’m just liking an article Mom shared about electric cars when I notice the set of footsteps approaching my corner of the lounge. I peer up from my phone screen and locate the source of the noise, smiling slightly once I do.  


“Yo, Connie,” I call out to the advancing figure. Connie smiles when he spots me tucked into the leather of the massive armchair and quickly shifts his course so that he pulls up next to me. His clunky bookbag is immediately deposited onto the seat to my right while Connie’s scrawny ass takes up residency on the arm of my chair. I scoot over slightly to accommodate his legs in my personal space.  


“Wassup, homeskillet,” he says, and I manage to avoid outwardly flinching at his attempt at slang. I probably would have, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been using 90’s jargon since he was eleven. I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes, though. “Did you do the French homework yet?”  


“No, Connie, I haven’t done the French homework yet,” I say, nudging his intruding limbs with the toe of my Converse.  


“Sucks. I was hoping I could copy off of you,” Connie sighs, pulling a muffin from his back pocket (I recoil in disgust) and stuffing half of it into his mouth. “You always get those stupid worksheets right.”  


“Pfft. Yeah. Only because I lied and didn’t tell the school I was fluent before signing up for French 101,” I tell him, as if Connie didn’t already know I spoke French. He knows full well that I do, by the way. Connie’s gone to school with me since fifth grade, and he’s definitely spent a fair amount of that time mooching off of my bilingualism. I’d be annoyed about it if I wasn’t so damn dependant on him for the answers in history class. Like I give a fuck about who started World War I.  


“I knoooooow. So hook a brother up, will ya?” He whines, leaning further towards what is quickly becoming my side of the armchair. I cringe, but agree to help him when muffin crumbs begin accumulating unpleasantly in my lap.  


Connie punches my arm a little too aggressively before pulling out the French workbook from his tattered backpack. We work together for what seems like hours, with me doing pretty much all of the writing while Connie pretends to be interested in the conjugations. Even after all these years, he’s still really bad at pretending to care.  


“For the thousandth time: you can’t use _être_ when saying how old something is, you have to use _avoir_.”  


“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”  


“Are you questioning my superior French capabilities, Chrome Dome?”  


“Just shut up and help me pass this class, will ya?”  


“Fine.”  


It’s nine forty-five when we finally finish the one page of homework and I release Connie from his personal hell. He collapses back in the armchair with glee, punching his fists in the air once his shit is cleared away. I’m even pulled into an awkward side-hug in celebration - much to my chagrin.  


“Okay, okay, let me go. I have class in fifteen minutes, you big goober.” I attempt to extract myself from Connie’s tentacle-like limbs but only get halfway to freedom before I’m wrestled back in and profoundly noogied. “Con, let _go_.”  


“Fine, spoilsport,” he says and shoves me off so that I’m left standing awkwardly before him. I roll my eyes and turn around to head back to the dorm where I left my bookbag. Connie’s voice stops me as I reach for the button to call down an elevator. “Tell Mrs. K I say hi!”  


I sigh. “It’s never gonna happen Con,” he pouts in my direction, “you aren’t my mom’s type.”  


“What, she isn’t into handsome twenty-somethings with terrible credit scores?” He shouts as I step into the elevator.  


“Sorry, bro. Looks like you’ll just have to find yourself another sugar momma.” I retort before the doors can slide shut all the way and cut my sentence off. I slump against the opposite wall of the elevator once they do.  


Connie’s had the hots for my mom for years which is….gross. To say the least. Mom doesn’t particularly mind. Actually, she finds it kind of cute - _ugh_ \- but it’s never sat right with me. Maybe just because the idea of Connie and my fifty year-old mother creeps me the fuck out. Maybe because my best bro values my Mom more than my own father did. Who knows.  


I’m still grossing myself out over the idea of Connie and my mom hooking up when the doors to the elevator open and I amble mindlessly towards my room. I grab my bag quickly and sprint off across the quad before I let myself think any more about it.  


.  


..  


...  


Forcing myself to open the door to room 236 turns out to be even more difficult than not strangling Eren on a daily basis. Partially because I’m terrified of what I’ll find on the other side….and partially because my hands are frozen and I can’t seem to grip the handle properly. I finally manage to thrust open the door after a few deep breaths and a brief pep talk. _You can do it_ , the brain genie says, _it’s just an hour and a half sitting next to a guy who may hate you. No big deal_.  


To my immense relief, Marco decides to stick with me after all. I spot his stupid blue bobble hat near the back of the room the second the door opens, and we lock eyes from across the lecture hall. His face lights up once he realizes I’m the one stepping through the door five minutes late to class and he waves me over to the seat next to him in hardly contained excitement. The brain genie nearly has an aneurysm from relief when he realizes Marco has no intention of ignoring me. _Me too, buddy. Me too_. I rush up the stairs before Shadis can count me absent, but the man luckily doesn’t seem to notice my tardiness; instead focusing all his attention on hooking up his computer to an ancient projector.  


‘ _Hey, Freckles_ ,’ I mouth to Marco, plopping down into the chair next to him and pulling out a notebook and some writing utensils as I go. Marco responds with a wave and another smile before looking down at a massive stack of papers lying on the desk in front of him. _Shit, did we have homework? Or does Marco just take weirdly thorough notes?_  


I nudge his arm with my elbow to get his attention, waiting for him to make eye contact with me before I silently ask my next question. First I point to the stack of suspicious papers, then to Shadis, then back to Marco, all the while raising my eyebrows perplexedly. I hope I managed to get the point across. Fuck, nonverbal communication is hard.  


Clearly, I am worse at it than I thought. Marco stares as I flail about trying to asking him the simple question and it’s obvious that he has no idea what I’m trying to say. I can’t blame him: I look like a complete doofus pointing between so many different people and objects. Eventually I give up and elect to write it down on a corner of my notebook.  


‘ _What’s that for?_ ’ I scribble in one of the margins, pushing the book towards Marco and pointing down to the hefty stack of papers on the table in front of him.  


‘ _Oooooooh._ ’ He writes that, by the way. With exactly that many o’s. Dork. ‘ _It’s a copy of every one of Shadis’ lectures for the semester._ ’  


I must look confused out of my mind (and god, do I feel like it) because Marco chuckles lightly before writing another note next to his previous one. ‘I _t’s not like I have the pleasure of hearing them delivered out loud ;P_ ’ Christ, he really is a five year old.  


We spend the next hour and a half in silence with Marco studiously following along with Shadis’ half-assed Power Point in his massive stack of papers and me doodling absentmindedly on the cover of my notebook. By the end of the lecture it’s covered in stars and supernovas, planets and aliens, all sorts of random crap. Shadis finally releases us at half past eleven, and the student body collectively sprints for the open door the instant that he announces that he wants all of us to get the fuck out of his room.  


Marco and I walk out of the building together, just like we did yesterday. The combined rhythm of our footsteps and our voices echoing off the pavement lulls me into a sense of security and I briefly wonder if anything has ever felt more natural to me. Somehow, I doubt it. Talking with Connie has never felt this easy. That may just be because I’m constantly yelling at him about verb conjugations, though.  


We laugh and turn around to face each other when we talk; the action feels artificial and forced, but Marco smiling when he reads a stupid joke off my lips makes it one-thousand percent worth it.  


“And then,” I get out between laughs, “the man CRANKS the wheel and says- and says: BETTER NATE THAN LEVER!” Marco cracks up at my poor delivery, both of us shuffling awkwardly and clutching our sides as we recover from the horrible pun.  


“That was so bad oh my god,” Marco cries between lingering giggles. A few students passing us by stare at the spectacle we’re making, but we’re both so slap happy it’s impossible to care.  


“By bad you mean _totally worth every second_ , right?” I ask, nudging him lightly in the shoulder so he knows I’m talking to him. Marco cackles and nods his head as tears stream down his face, the tracks connecting clusters of his freckles together like the world’s largest and possibly hardest game of connect the dots. “Absolutely worth it,” he finally gets out between gasps of air.  


_Are you sure you wanna be friends with such a huge nerd?_ the brain genie inquires from his position near the surprisingly tranquil BS o’meter.  


_Don’t be fucking rude. Who else is going to enjoy my shitty jokes?_ I respond, mentally slapping the genie for making me doubt this brief moment of happiness.  


We laugh for a few more minutes before Marco finally has to depart to get to theater. I watch him disappear down the sidewalk for longer than is probably strictly necessary, relishing the stiffness in my abs from laughing for so long. It makes it easier to completely ignore the biting sting of wind on my exposed face and hands.  


Unfortunately, it doesn’t make it easier for me to forget that I totally blanked on getting Marco’s phone number. _Shit, Kirschtein. Way to fuck that up._  


I look down at my phone: ten minutes to noon. My next class isn’t until 12:30. _Maybe if I rush…._  


The decision is made immediately and I know right off the bat that it’s a fucking stupid idea. _Are you really going to try and hunt the kid down at theater? How pathetic can you get?_ the genie taunts. The logical part of my brain tells me to listen to him, and I briefly consider how many variables are unaccounted for in this little side quest to get Marco’s phone number. Do I know where his class is? No. Can I even get _into_ the drama department if I don’t take any theater course? Probably not. Am I 100% willing to interrupt a class just to get some freckled dork’s phone number? Absolutely.  


With that in mind I let my feet carry me down the icy sidewalk leading up to the arts building. It’s been awhile since I’ve been to this side of campus - the last time being Freshman year when I took a still-life class in the musty old basement - but my body acts on muscle memory as I slip and slide my way towards the ancient brick establishment. I narrowly avoid falling on my ass no less than three times, though I still somehow end up sliding face-first into the front door when I trip gracelessly on a patch of ice.  


“FUCK!” I yell to my Converse, internally cursing their lack of traction as I yank open the door and hurry inside. The building hasn’t changed at all in the last year (much to my relief) and I quickly pick my way down the hall trying to find Marco’s class. I have to stop every few feet to peek into the many classrooms that line the hallway, but alas, none of them contain my freckled friend. Or anyone for that matter. The building is basically empty. _Shit, where is he?_  


I’m admittedly pretty close to giving up and just heading to physics early when I hear someone yelling indistinctly at the end of the hallway. Shrugging my backpack over my shoulder, I decide to check the noise out, hoping that it leads me to Marco. _Or another human being_ , I think, _this place is fucking deserted_.  


I follow the noise all the way to the end of the retro-carpet lined hall, only stopping once I come to a junction I don’t remember ever having encountered when I took a class here last year. The hallway splits off into two directions, but I swear I can hear voices resonating from both sides. I can’t see what’s going down in the corridor to my left because there isn’t a single light bulb to illuminate the passage. I think I can make out a few more doors and maybe a ladder in the light radiating out from where I stand, but I decide not to chance it: not wanting to trip and break my neck stalking a guy who might not appreciate me following him, much less asking for his phone number. That’d be an embarrassing way to go.  


The hall to my right isn’t much better, but at least I can see where I’m stepping. I follow the ugly carpeting a few feet before the walls surrounding me suddenly drop away, revealing a massive open space that I presume to be a stage. Unfortunately for me, it’s not unoccupied.  


“Why? _Why?_ How _old_ are you, Laura!” A familiar voice shouts. The sound of paper being ripped to shreds follows closely behind. “I thought you were an adult, it seems I was mistaken!” More ripping noises. _What the fuck kind of class is this?_  


I turn fully around the corner, not entirely sure if I want the answer. What the fuck did Laura do for this crank to be so angry with her? Moving so that my body faces the source of the argument, I am both relieved and surprised to find only two people standing near the back of the stage. Two young women, to be exact, arguing dramatically with one another as they pace between a bookshelf and a truly pathetic, old couch. Actors, I guess, if their outdated outfits are anything to go by. One - a pretty and delicate young blonde - wears a long but simple dress that accentuates her tiny frame while the other, taller woman wears a hideous petticoat that does nothing to flatter the surprisingly athletic body I know hides underneath it.  


“Sasha?” I finally speak from my hiding place in the corner, successfully scaring the shit out of my friend. She jumps, nearly smacking the other girl in the face, and promptly turns to locate the source of my voice. I step out of the shadows I had been lurking in like a creep to make it a little easier on her.  


“Jean? What are you doing here?” Sasha asks, straightening out the frills of her dress and locking eyes with me once I embrace the light and come out of hiding.  


“I’m um….” I am suddenly very aware of how awkward this whole situation is. _Oh, hi, Sasha, I just came to get this guy who I’ve only known for a day’s phone number. I didn’t sprint across the quad and stalk him here or anything._ “I’m here to find somebody.” _Smooth. Real fucking smooth, Jean. Great cover. No one will suspect a thing_ , the genie snarks.  


“Oh?” Sasha’s eyes widens as she walks over to me. “Who are you looking for?”  


I don’t respond. And luckily, I don’t need to, because all of a sudden the single spotlight that was illuminating centerstage turns into two spotlights, then five, then an entire armada of luminosity.  


“What the-” I start, jumping back into the shadows to avoid the blinding artificial light.  


“Oh, they’re just bringing up the house lights because rehearsal got interrupted,” Sasha says. A chorus of grumbles and sarcastic ‘ _thanks a lot_ ’s’ come from over my head where I assume a couple dozen techies are hiding out and glaring down at the noob who just walked on stage like an idiot.  


“Oh, uh. Sorry!” I yell, earning back a collective ‘ _fuck off_ ’ from the lighting kids and an inharmonious groan from the remaining three actors. “Sorry, I’m looking for my friend?” I try again, this time much quieter so my voice won’t echo as much in the huge room.  


“I’m right here, Jean. What do you need?” Sasha throws her arm around me, leaning on my shoulder like she used to when she was still taller than me. (We were kids okay? It totally doesn’t count.)  


“Ah, sorry, Sash,” I extricate her arm from my personal space and take another step back, “I’m looking for someone else.”  


“You mean you didn’t come here to bring your dearest and oldest friend a mid-rehearsal snack?” Sasha whines. I roll my eyes at her forwardness, but decide to humor her by pulling out a bag of potato chips from my backpack and dropping it into her waiting hands. She thanks me profusely, shoving half of the bag’s contents into her mouth and spraying crumbs in my direction as she speaks.  


“I didn’t even know you were into this crap, Sash,” I say, gesturing to her frumpy outfit and the surrounding stage, which is now coming to life as the rest of the cast and crew decide to take my interruption as opportunity for a break.  


“Totally! Love this shit,” Sasha says. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the play or the potato chips she’s funneling into her mouth.  


“Duly noted. Now, I really need to find this guy so if you could….” I check the time on my phone. _12:15 already? Shit, I’m gonna be late_.  


“Yeah, yeah sure. Anything for my darling Jeanbo. Who’re you lookin’ for?” The chip bag is crumpled into a sphere and launched over my head; polished off in record time thanks to Sasha’s incurable appetite.  


“His name’s Marco,” I try, “he’s tall, and he has freckles, and he smiles a lot?”  


Sasha squints, clearly trying to match my description to a familiar face. It doesn’t seem to work. “Don’t know him,” she shrugs, “but I bet if you yell real loud he’ll hear it and come find you.”  


“Something tells me that’s not gonna-”  


“Jean? What are you doing here?” I spin around at the comforting voice emanating from behind me and come face-to-face with the freckled saint himself. “I thought you had physics.” He says, moving into the light so we can see each other a little better.  


“Uh, yeah I do. In fifteen minutes….how did you-” I stammer uncomfortably and gesture widely to my general area, wondering how he found me in this catacomb of lighting equipment and echoing hallways.  


“I saw you walk on stage,” Marco answers before pointing up to one of the many catwalks zigzagging over our heads, “I work lights.”  


_Right. Duh. He probably saw you ruining their rehearsal and came down to politely kick you out before someone ruder had the pleasure of doing it for him_ , Mr. genie remarks. I’m wondering if it’s possible to beat up your own conscience when Marco’s voice interjects once again.  


“Did you need something? Is everything okay?” He asks. Is he always so caring? Must be the big brother in him.  


I open my mouth to answer but I can’t bring myself to voice my question. _C’mon, man. It’s just six little words. You can do this._ Oh god. What if he thinks I’m hitting on him. Or that I’m trying to stalk him. Do I even know him well enough to ask for his digits? _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_.  


I must have spaced out because next thing I know, Marco’s hand is on my shoulder and he’s shaking me gently to get my attention. “Jean?”  


“Right, right, sorry,” I straighten and brush his hand off my arm somewhat stiffly. Marco flinches a bit at the contact, but doesn’t fight to keep his hand on my shoulder. “I just came to ask: canIhaveyourphonenumber?” _Fuckin nailed it, Kirschtein_.  


The room starts spinning as soon as the words are out of my mouth. My legs are so beyond ready to sprint out the door all the way to Dr. Smith’s lab, or even to the dorm if necessary, but my feet don’t seem to be on quite the same page. While my legs feel ready to run a marathon, my shoes feel like they’ve been cemented to the slippery floorboards underneath them. The combination of the two sensations gives me crazy vertigo and I have to close my eyes to stay standing up. God, this is so pathetic. I’m a grown ass man. I shouldn’t be passing out just because I asked another dude for his phone number. Pathetic.  


Thankfully, Marco seems to have gotten this whole ‘adult’ thing under his belt a lot better than I have.  


“Oh,” he laughs, “is that all?”  


I think: _Is that all? IS THAT ALL? DO YOU EVEN SEE ME RIGHT NOW, MARCO? I AM CURRENTLY INCAPACITATED WITH HUMILIATION DON’T YOU ‘IS THAT ALL’ ME, MISTER_.  


I say: “Yeah. Guess so.”  


“Alrighty then. Here,” he pulls a phone from his back pocket and I realize for the first time that he’s changed out of his normal clothes into an all black outfit complete with dark jeans, shoes, and a slightly too-tight shirt. “You can just put your number in and text yourself from this, if you’d like.”  


“Great, thanks,” I say, typing in my number and firing off a quick message to myself. My own phone buzzes satisfactorily in my pocket once I’ve handed the device back to Marco. “Sorry about ruining your walk through. I didn’t know what I was stumbling into.”  


“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, “want me to walk you out so you don’t get lost? It can be kind of a maze in here.”  


I laugh. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”  


Marco leads me out the way I came, stopping only momentarily to tell another student that he’s leaving. We wind through the hallways together until we finally reach the main entrance to the fine arts building. I’m about to walk through the doors and wave goodbye to Marco when his hand around my wrist stops me.  


“Hey, Jean?” I look back to find Marco staring down at his feet and rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks exactly the same as he did when we met on Saturday.  


“Yeah?”  


“Thanks for tracking me down,” he says. The hand at the back of his head continues to rub anxiously, but at least he’s no longer making eye contact with the floor instead of with me. “It means a lot, ya know?” More rubbing. He bites his lip. Has he always done that?  


“Oh yeah?” I say, not exactly sure where he’s trying to go with this. Also in an attempt to end the conversation because I’m pretty sure I’m already late for physics; not that I’d ever tell Marco that.  


“Yeah, I mean,” he lets out a disgruntled huff, “it’s kind of hard to talk sometimes…. for me, at least, and…. I dunno. Texting’s so universal and so _easy_. I don’t have to speak and I don’t have to see you to communicate with you; it’s just nice. Anyway, thanks for giving me another way to talk to you, I guess is what I’m trying to say.”  


My brain searches frantically for something to say, but comes up empty. That was….strangely heartfelt. I’ve never been good with that kind of stuff: never. Never known what to say or even what I want to say, but Christ. Marco makes it look so easy, standing at the threshold to the building with his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes widened expectantly. I glance up and down his face, searching for any sign that he feels uncomfortable with what he just said, but his expression radiates honesty and the only indication I have that he might feel awkward about it is the slight flush to his cheeks.  


“Don’t worry about it,” I finally squeak out, “I just thought, you know, maybe I should get your number in case I forget the homework or something.”  


“Haha, yeah,” Marco says, the flush to his cheeks burning just a little bit brighter. _Dammit Jean, you ruined the moment with the the grace of a fucking ballerina. You dick._  


“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I toss over my shoulder, stepping out of the building as fast as I possibly can to avoid making the situation even worse. It occurs to me after a few steps that Marco totally didn’t hear what I just said, but the thought of turning around and explaining myself to him makes me sick so I settle on throwing a quick wave behind me and continuing on to physics. _You’re just the master of making things worse, aren’t you?_ conscience says, sipping on cocktails from his cushy position in the back of my head. _A real fucking pro_.  


Looking back to find Marco still standing in the doorway, I’m not inclined to disagree with him.  


_Yeah. I really am._  


.  


..  


...  


Needless to say, this master of fucking up doesn’t make it to physics on this particular Tuesday. About halfway to the science complex, I manage to slip on a surprisingly well concealed patch of ice, landing directly on my tail bone and possibly spraining my wrist. I take my spectacular fail as a sign from The Big Man to just call it quits and head home for the day. The dorm is blissfully abandoned, and I allow myself a few minutes to relax before wrapping my wrist up in an old t-shirt and lying down on my side to keep the pressure off my bruised ass. It briefly registers that skipping class on the second day of the semester is a terrible idea, but I can’t bring myself to care. Or to move, for that matter. Everything really hurts.  


Eren and Armin return at about four o’clock and, despite my vehement protesting, Eren insists on looking at my injuries. He confirms my sprained wrist hypothesis (whoopie), but I don’t let him anywhere near my ass because there’s no way I trust the little cretin enough to go anywhere near my goods. Eren eventually lets me win, but not without forcing me to put some ice over the bruise.  


By some act of god, Eren even decides to sleep in his own bed for the night, leaving just Armin and myself to enjoy the peaceful quiet of our dorm room. Armin does homework like the good little student he is while I try to make myself comfortable on the lumpy dorm mattress. For a while, I can almost imagine that everything is just peachy.  


Until Armin speaks up. That bastard.  


“Saw you at rehearsal today,” he says without looking up from his computer screen. I grunt in response because I’m too lazy and too tired to form an articulate reply.  


“Is everything with Marco okay?” He adds on, still focused entirely on the political science essay he’s been working on for the past two hours.  


“Jesus, Armin, you make it sound like we’re a couple or something,” I groan, “everything’s fine. I’m just awkward as fuck, that’s all.”  


Armin doesn’t push the issue further, and I am immensely grateful that he’s so willing to spend the rest of the night in silence because it gives me time to organize my thoughts.  


On one hand, today was an absolute success. Marco doesn’t hate me. He laughs at my jokes. I got his phone number. All is well.  


On the other hand, I probably made him feel super awkward for revealing something to me. Just because I didn’t have a fucking clue what to say. Nice. _One step forward, two steps back_ , I figure.  


Welcome to my life.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke that Jean is telling Marco is called the longest joke in the world. You can read it at http://longestjokeintheworld.com/ if you're willing to put away a few hours of your life for a really dumb punch line. (It's totally worth it, btw) And I swear, Jean won't be this angsty and awkward forever.


	4. Is This the Real Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Marco have a few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok...so technically this chapter wasn't supposed to happen, but I felt like the story needed more fluff before I made it sad. Hehe.  
> Also, come talk with me on tumblr! I get lonely: http://www.beauty-brains-and-batarangs.tumblr.com  
> And, as always, enjoy!

**From: Marco** Hey, do you need notes from today’s English lecture?

 **From: Marco** Jean?

 **From: Marco** Are you sick?

 **From: Marco** Jean

 **From: Marco** Jean

 **From: Marco** Ok, I’ll copy extra for you. 

I wake up the next morning much later that I normally would; vaguely remembering that I turned off all of my alarms the night before. Forcing myself to roll out from the comfort of my blanket, I grab for my phone. _Holy shit!_  


“It’s noon?!” I yell and sit upright faster than is probably necessary. I immediately regret it when my wrist twinges in protest and the bruise on my ass starts hurting like crazy, coercing me to flop back onto the mattress in defeat. _Looks like I won’t be going to class today._  


My phone buzzes again and I properly scroll through the long list of texts from Marco, mildly surprised that he bothered with me. Is he really gonna write down twice as much just for my sorry ass? I hope not. It’d be a complete waste of ink.  


**From: Marco** Please don’t be dead, I don’t want to sit by myself for the rest of the semester :,(

Marco’s text makes me laugh out loud and, despite the protest from my aching back, I manage to return his message with one of my own. I have to prop myself up with my bad arm, which kills, but I probably need to reassure Marco that I’m still with the living.  


**To: Marco** hey sorry i fell on some ice yesterday. can’t move. thanks for taking notes man  


I drop my phone back down on the bedside table, slightly exhausted from having to hold myself up on my injured wrist. Once I’ve successfully relieved it from the extra pressure I find the ice pack Eren had given me last night and press it to the swollen joint. I wince. My skin looks fucking awful; the deep yellow and purple bruises doing nothing to compliment my pasty white-boy complexion. I feel my stomach heaving slightly at the sight, but I press the ice pack to the discolored skin anyway, though I quickly notice that the pack is only lukewarm (even that seems like too generous of an estimate).  


Deciding that the need for more ice outweighs my desire for comfort, I push myself off the bed and stumble out into the hallway to gather more from the Dorm Attendants downstairs. A student named Franz who I vaguely remember from Freshman year mans the desk and hands me another ice pack without question. He doesn’t even bother to ask what it’s for. _I must really look like shit_ , I think once I turn back towards the elevator and push the button for the third floor. _I should probably look in the mirror_.  


As it turns out, looking in the mirror does nothing to improve my mood whatsoever. The second I close to the dorm I am faced with the startling reality of my disheveled appearance.  


You see, I don’t particularly consider myself a morning person. I can’t function before ten in the morning and God help any soul who tries to interact with me before at least 100mg of caffeine are coursing through my blood. My - dare I say horrifying - looks this morning do nothing to assure me that the whole ‘anti-morning’ sentiment I’ve got going on is all in my head. My hair is swept to one side, revealing a very shabby middle layer of undercut I wasn’t even aware I had. There are dark circles under my eyes that could give the bruises on my tailbone and wrist a run for their money, too.  


But worst of all is the fact that I’m not wearing anything besides a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. _Jesus, Kirschtein_ , the genie reprimands me, _you’re losing it._  


Once again, I am not inclined to disagree with him. I look like absolute fucking shit and I _walked through this whole fucking dorm in my underwear_. I rub my eyes and fist my hands in my hair, trying to wake myself from what I desperately hope is a bad dream but nothing seems to be working. The opening lines to Bohemian Rhapsody start playing in my head as I stumble back into the inviting warmth of my bed.  


_Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?_ Oh god, I wish it was.  


I’m still trying to come to terms with myself when I hear the text notification on my phone. _Shit, I forgot I was talking to Marco_. I roll over and read his message, my eyes widening comically once I do.  


**From: Marco** Where do you live? I’ll come drop them off after theater.  


_He wants to drop them off?_ I think. My heart rate increases at the thought of Marco seeing me in my current condition, but slows again once I check the time and realize I have about an hour to make myself presentable. Or, you know, slightly more presentable. _Confused hobo_ is still my default style. I text him back with my room number anyway.  


**From: Marco** Great! Be there in an hour! :D  


_What a dope_ , I think as I roll back under the blankets. I figure I have an hour before Marco gets here, why bother with the whole process of making myself look decent now when I can procrastinate and do it at the last second?  


I tug the sheet over my head and close my eyes, sighing contentedly at the blissful silence in the room without Eren’s music or Armin’s constant typing. Heavenly is the best way to describe it. So heavenly, that I don’t even notice that I’ve drifted off until I hear three brisk knocks against the door.  


“Jean? Are you in there?” Marco’s voice calls from the other side.  


“SHIT!” I yell as I spring up from the bed. _Okay, okay….you can do this, Jean. Just run your hands through your hair a few times and straighten out the covers. Yeah, like that. Looks fucking perfect_.  


“Jean?” Marco says again. He knocks on the wood once more, a little less confidently than last time.  


“Coming! Coming!” I yell, pulling on a pair of sweatpants I found in the laundry bin as I totter gracelessly across the tiny room.  


“I’ll just slide them under the door, uh, I guess?” That’s right. _He totally didn’t just hear you, dumbass_ , the brain genie says amusedly while I try my best to open the door and pull on my pants at the same time.  


“HEY!” Yelling probably isn’t making my situation better, I realize, but at least the frantic way I open the door gets Marco’s attention. Well it’s either that, or the feral look I bet I’m sporting, but I’d like to think it was the door.  


“Oh!” Marco takes a step back, clutching a stack of papers in his hands, “sorry, I was just about to slide these under the door um….”  


Marco looks me up and down for the first time, his eyes still flicking back up to my lips every few seconds as he waits for me to explain why I look like I just rolled out of my own grave and not my bed. “Are you….okay?”  


“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I’m fine,” I grab his arm and pull him into the room. He sqwaks at the sudden contact, but I ignore it in favor of shutting the door before a passer by glances in and gets grossed out by my stunning good looks. “Thank you so much, I really couldn’t get to class today, and you really didn’t have to do this, you know I’m probably not even gonna use them anyw-”  


“Jean,” Marco laughs and I shut up, “slow down! I can’t read your lips that fast.”  


“O-oh. Right. Sorry.” _That’s two times now that you’ve forgotten that he can’t hear. Wanna go for the record and make it three?_ “Just, you know, thanks for copying your notes. And bringing them. And everything.”  


“Don’t worry about it,” Marco says, finally pulling himself free from the iron-clad grip I have on the fabric of his sweater. I yank my hand away and wipe it on my sweatpants. Way to creep a dude out, Jean. It’s not like you’re trying to make a good impression or anything. Not at all.  


“Are you okay?” he asks. I look up to find him staring intently at me, probably expecting an answer. His head is cocked to the side and his hands rest casually in his pockets as he waits for me to get my shit together.  


“Oh, I’m fine. I’m just sore,” I lift up the ice pack and my wrapped wrist to show him. He lets out a low whistle at the sight.  


“Looks like that patch of ice kicked your butt,” Marco chuckles.  


“You have no idea,” I say, absentmindedly rubbing at the tender skin where my spine meets my ass. Marco laughs at my misfortune but it doesn’t feel malicious, so I laugh along with him. We stand together in the middle of the dorm, laughing idly like we’re best friends….like I didn’t totally mess things up with him yesterday.  


“Hey,” I nudge him in the arm so he’ll look up and realize I’m trying to talk to him. Our eyes meet; his still have creases around the corners from laughing. “I’m sorry about yesterday, running off I mean. I forgot that you couldn’t….you know….” I trail off, not wanting to mention his deafness. That’d be rude, right?  


“Forgot….that I couldn’t hear?” Marco supplies. He doesn’t look particularly disappointed when he talks, so I nod shyly at him once he’s done speaking. He sighs. “Don’t worry about it, Jean. People do all the time, it doesn’t bother me anymore.”  


“Anymore?” I say, but he doesn’t respond.  


“What’s all this stuff?” He asks instead, pointing at the collection of vinyl records on my desk instead. _Uh oh_.  


“Those? Those are just some records,” I move over the old stereo as I speak. I run my fingers lovingly along the clasps and flick them open with a practiced motion. My mind wanders as I imagine another pair of hands opening the machine instead. _It should be his hands. It was his, not yours,_ the brain genie pops up.  


_Shut up shut up shut up_ , I tell him.  


“Do you like music?” Marco questions, and I’m thankful for the distraction. He comes to stand beside me and carefully picks up one of the cardboard sleeves, flipping it over to examine the decorative cake and shiny vinyl record printed on the cover.  


“It’s the Rolling Stones,” I say when he looks over at me with raised eyebrows, “they’re like, rock ‘n roll legends. Wait, no. Rock ‘n roll _gods._ ”  


“So you listen to this stuff a lot?” Marco says as he pulls the plastic disk out from between two pieces of newsprint. I gently pry it from his hands and put it on the machine.  


“Yeah,” I respond, “my dad….my dad really used to like this stuff.” My jaw clenches shut with an audible snap once I realize what I’ve said. Fortunately, Marco seems to notice my discomfort and doesn’t pursue the topic any further. We stand together and he watches as I carefully lower the needle on the stereo and turn the knob so it’ll start spinning. Marco’s gaze is firmly fixed on the arm of the machine, smiling once it begins moving. I turn the volume up, but realize half a second later that it won’t make a damn difference.  


“Oh, oh shit, sorry,” I say frantically, moving to raise the needle so I don’t keep taunting the poor kid with something he can’t enjoy. Marco’s hand stops me and he swats me away playfully.  


“It’s ok,” Marco tells me, “I don’t need to hear it.”  


“But-”  


“I can feel the vibrations, you know,” he says and I realize he didn’t notice my attempt to interject. He lays his palm flat on the table and closes his eyes, letting the tremors flow through him. I watch, curious, and do the same, putting my hand down on the other side of the record machine and trying to feel what he feels.  


_‘The floods is threatening_  


_My very life today_  


_Gimme, gimme shelter_  


_Or I'm gonna fade away’_  


To my credit, I gave it a shot. I closed my eyes and felt the desk shudder under my fingertips. I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to listen to music like this. I tried….and I failed.  


I turn the machine off after Mick Jagger stops telling me that ‘love is just a kiss away’ and look at Marco standing next to me. He’s finally opened his eyes to peer at me questioningly, his hand still resting on the desk.  


“Hmm,” he murmurs, “I liked it.” Marco removes his palm from the table and turns towards me, smiling as he goes. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with the fact that he couldn’t hear the lyrics or the excellent guitar, just the ghosts of them.  


“Yeah?” I say anyway. Marco nods.  


“Yeah. I probably would’ve listened to stuff like it if I still had my hearing aids,” he replies, shrugging and turning on his heel to take in more of the dingy dorm. “So this is your room, huh?”  


“Wait, hang on, still had….? You can’t hear me nevermind,” I say after he’s already turned around. _Dammit, Marco. We were having a moment. Maybe I should get his attention and ask him again?_  


Instead, I settle on walking over so that I’m standing in his line of sight and nod to answer his previous question. Marco smiles back, and wanders around to look at more of my stuff. He giggles when he spots my super fuzzy Batman blanket (it’s comfy, ok?) and runs one freckled hand over the soft fabric. I punch him on the arm to silently reprimand him for judging my superior taste in comic book characters and wait for him to turn around. The sight of the bunk-bed across the room stops him from making the full rotation.  


“Do you have a roommate?” He signs as he speaks. I try to discreetly copy his motions so I can file them away for future reference.  


“More like a roommate and a half,” I tell him. Marco raises his eyebrows and holds both his hands out with his palms up in front of him. _He doesn’t get it_ , the brain genie snarks. I tell the brain genie to fuck off.  


“I have Armin, I guess. But most nights I have to deal with Armin’s freeloading friend,” I grimace when I remind myself of Eren so I add: “he’s an ass.”  


Marco chuckles at my bold declaration. I ask him if he has any roommates, too. That’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it? Fuck if I know.  


“No, just me,” he says, “I live in Maria House.”  


That makes me pause. Maria is an entirely Freshman dorm, but we’ve already established that both Marco and I are in our Sophomore year at MSU. What’s he doing in Maria? Did he get held back a year? Is he secretly just a really tall Freshman?  


I decide not to ask him about it. Yet. He probably hates living with the newbies enough. I don’t want to remind him of what is sure to be constant suffering.  


“Nice, wish I had that,” I lie. I wouldn’t wish Freshmen on my worst enemies. Except maybe Eren. Fuck Eren.  


“It’s not too great,” Marco continues, “it was hard getting used to, y’know? Big family and all.”  


Right. He’s got five siblings. I remember, because I’m a good friend. I shake my head.  


“I still don’t know how you do it, bro.” Marco rolls his eyes and elbows me in the ribs, a silent rebuke of my position towards social interaction. I elbow him back, which causes him to punch me in the stomach lightly, which results in the most pathetic fist fight I’ve ever partaken in. Marco spares me any actual punches - probably because I’m injured and still look like shit - but I don’t hold back. He doesn’t seem affected in the slightest when I jab him in the shoulder. _Dammit, he’s stronger than me, too. Fuck you, Marco_.  


After a while, he brushes me off and holds up his hands in mock surrender.  


“What? _Booo_. C’mon, man. My half-roommate could do better than that!” I say, putting both hands on my hips and waiting for him to stop being a pansy.  


“Sorry, Jean,” he laughs, “I have to get going. I have another class in twenty minutes.”  


“ _Lame_.” I stick my tongue out at him as he retreats towards the door, still laughing and breathless from pretending to punch me.  


“Oh, like slipping on a patch of ice and staying home for two days isn’t any worse,” Marco tells me. He sticks out his tongue in retaliation.  


“Touche.”  


“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, ‘kay?” he says before pumping the handle to the door and taking a step into the hallway, “you better be there! Shadis’ class without a distraction is _brutal_.”  


“Okay, okay. I’ll be there.” I throw up my hands in resignation and Marco nods. A few strands of his usually neat black hair fly into his face and I watch, amused, as he tries to blow them back into order. He tries again. And again. And one more time before giving up and just running his hand back through his hair.  


“‘Night,” Marco says as he waves and closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dorm once again.  


I lay back down on my bed, but it doesn’t feel as relaxing as it was before. I try grabbing my Batman blanket and wrapping myself up in its softness (stop judging me, dammit), but it does nothing to ease the growing sense of loneliness writhing around in my stomach. The next hour is spent trying to ignore it, but nothing seems to work.  


Nothing, except thinking about how excited I am to see Marco again.  


.  


..  


…  


I end up going to English Thursday morning, though not without a fair deal of complaining to both Armin and Marco via text. Getting to class takes every ounce of strength I can muster, and I can internally feel the strain the effort is putting on the BS o’meter. The brain genie seems to sense it too, because he advises me more than once to stay in bed and ignore the looming responsibility of actually going to class. _Trust me, I want to_ , I tell him. I’m even more inclined to follow his advice when I walk into class and discover that we had homework due today. _Shit. I knew I should have read the notes Marco gave me!_  


Marco, seeing my mini breakdown as I flop into the seat next to him, pulls out his phone and taps me with it. I take it as a sign to get my own phone so I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and fish it out. It buzzes with a text notification once it’s in my hands.  


**From: Marco** You didn’t do the English homework, did you?  


**To: Marco** im glad you think so highly of me Marco  


**From: Marco** -.-  


**From: Marco** You need the answers, don’t you?  


**To: Marco** yes plz  


I look over at Marco and flash him the most pathetic face I can manage without completely losing my dignity. Marco rolls his eyes.  


**From: Marco** You owe me.  


**To: Marco** i’ll buy you coffee  


**From: Marco** ….with sugar?  


**To: Marco** all the sugar that starbucks can offer you  


**From: Marco** Done.  


Once our debate is decided, Marco hands me a piece of paper with answers to the five or so questions we were supposed to respond to. It’s typed - and very official - but I don’t have time for that shit, so I just rip a piece of paper out of my notebook and begin writing as fast as I can. Marco laughs at my frantic scribbling so I kick him lightly under the table and mouth a quick ‘shut up’ in his direction.  


Five minutes and about one-thousand words later, Marco and I head to the front of the class to hand our work in. The teacher’s assistant collects them, nodding in approval at Marco’s work and frowning not-too-politely at my messy scrawl. Marco apologizes on my behalf before grabbing my arm and tugging me back towards our seats to settle in for what is sure to be a boring lecture from Shadis.  


Boring turns out to be a massive understatement, as Marco and I soon find out. I’d recap the Powerpoint for you, but I honestly can’t remember any of it. I don’t even know what book it was about. Marco tells me it was about _King Lear_ , but I’m fairly certain it was just an hour and a half of static noises.  


Much to my relief, we both end up being the first bodies out of the room when Shadis excuses us for the day. Marco sprints in front of me, clutching his messenger bag in one hand as his long legs propel him through the second floor hallway and down the stairs. I follow with great difficulty; my back protesting when it gets hit with my backpack and my slightly shorter legs having to move twice as fast to keep up with Marco’s gargantuan stride. He stops in the middle of the quad and I don’t hesitate to follow suit. We’re both gasping in the freezing air and trying our damndest not to keel over into the snow.  


“ _Fuck you_ ,” I choke out, “fuck you, and your giraffe legs.”  


Marco doesn’t notice me trying to speak because he’s too focused on trying to regain his composer. I grab some snow with my shaking hands and lob the clump at Marco’s head, laughing when he wheels back in surprise.  


“Fuck, man,” I say again, “give me a warning next time you decide to turn into the Flash on me, will ya?” Marco laughs at my over exaggerated interpretation and throws another handful of snow in my direction, hitting me in the torso.  


“Sorry! I couldn’t sit in there a second longer than absolutely necessary,” he says as he dusts some of the snow out of his hair. I do the same and we both take the opportunity to catch our breaths.  


“Hey,” Marco claps a hand on my shoulder, “I think you owe me a coffee, mister.”  


“Don’t you have theater in like, twenty minutes?” I ask him, even though we begin walking in the opposite direction as the fine arts building.  


“Not on Thursdays,” he replies. I nod and continue down the sidewalk towards the Starbucks I met Armin in on Saturday. It’s predictably crowded with college students trying to get their midday fix, but we manage to snag a table near the front of the well decorated coffee shop. I force Marco to sit down and save our seats as I go to the cash register to order and pay, figuring that I’ll probably have to get him something ridiculous to match his ridiculous sweet tooth.  


“One tall coffee and one tall mocha, please,” I tell the petite woman behind the counter. She plugs my order in and takes my cash before looking back up at me and gasping in surprise.  


“Oh! I know you!” She says and I flounder awkwardly as her beautiful blue eyes blink rapidly at mine. “You were at rehearsal yesterday!”  


“Uhhh,” panic. I’m panicking. _What do I say? Sorry I ruined everything? Great to see you again?_ I decide on a lame head nod instead of taking the risk of opening my mouth again and embarrassing myself further.  


“You’re Marco’s friend! I’m Krista,” the girl holds out her hand and I reluctantly accept it.  


“Hi.” _Saved it_.  


She giggles and I swear to god the room gets a little brighter. “I’m in the play Marco’s running lights for,” she says.  


“Oh, uh cool,” I say as she hands me two cups of coffee. I’m trying to come up with something less lame to say when I feel another person come up behind me. Thinking it’s another customer, I turn around and prepare to head back to Marco, but find that strictly unnecessary because he’s standing right behind me.  


“Oh, here,” I shove a cup into his hand without bothering to check if it’s mine or his. Marco smiles at me and mouths a quick thanks, but quickly turns back to the blonde behind the counter. I watch, startled, as they begin moving their hands about in what I assume is a very interesting conversation.  


Marco and Krista sign at each other so…. _easily_. I’m mesmerized by the look of it all. Marco’s hands flow from motion to motion gracefully, his entire body changing every few seconds as he tries to convey something new. I keep my eyes fixed on his hands as he talks, intrigued by how quickly he’s able to switch between subtle motions and broad gestures. They both laugh and soon enough, it’s over. Marco nudges me with his shoulder and we walk back to our table with Marco throwing a few more signs over his shoulder to Krista as we go. I still can’t take my eyes off it.  


_Dammit, Kirschtein, stop staring. You look like a perv._

“So, uh,” I clear my throat once we’re back in our seats and Marco is turned towards me, “is Krista hearing impaired, too?”  


Marco winces. I wonder if it’s because the coffee is too strong or if it’s because I said something stupid. Again.  


I hope it’s not the latter.  


“No….,” Marco starts carefully, like he’s explaining something very touchy, “she’s hearing. She wants to be a translator, though. I help her with her signing sometimes. But….” he trails off.  


“You okay?” I ask. I reach for some sugar packets at the counter behind me and toss them in his direction in case his coffee is still too strong.  


“Yeah, it’s just,” he looks at the ceiling like he’s trying to piece the conversation together in his head, “I don’t really like the term ‘hearing impaired’ is all. Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal.”  


Marco looks back towards the cup in his hands and raises it to his slightly chapped lips, wincing as he adjusts to the bitter flavor. He smiles in an attempt to reassure me of his conviction, but I don’t buy it.  


“Yes, it is. Don’t give me that crap, Marco. It matters to you, so it’s important.” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest to show him how fucking serious I am.  


“It’s really not that big a deal, Jean I-”  


“Nope. Nope nope nope,” I cut him off, “if you don’t like it, then I won’t use it. End of discussion.”  


Marco stares at me, wide eyed, before looking down at the coffee cup in his hands and biting his lip until the usually cherry red skin turns white. He mumbles a quiet thanks and takes a quick sip of his sugary beverage. I punch him lightly on the shoulder which makes him smile, he raises his cup in the air and taps it against mine in a very poor imitation of a toast. We laugh at the sappy image it must make and turn away from each other to stare out the massive window in front of us. Marco pulls out his dorky bobble hat after a few minutes and I rib him a few times for getting cold when we’re sitting in a well heated building and drinking hot coffee.  


“What? I’m not used to this kind of weather!” He yelps when my elbow collides with his ribs. “Stop that!”  


“What do you mean you’re not used to this weather, you grew up here, didn’t you?” I say, yanking the bobble hat off his head with one swift motion. I laugh at his fantastic hat hair.  


“ _No_ ,” he jerks the hat back out of my grasp and pulls it over the nest of dark cowlicks.  


“What? No way. Only Trost natives go to MSU.”  


“I’m from Jinae!” Marco laughs when I pull a face that clearly suggests my ignorance of where this place is.  


“It’s on the coast. Really tiny, mostly immigrant families,” he says. He smiles slightly like he’s remembering something but it vanishes quickly and his expression darkens before I can ask him what he’s thinking about. “Jinae’s too small to have a college, so I came here.”  


“Ah,” I pause before continuing, “soo…. if it’s on the coast….do you know how to surf and stuff?”  


“Yes. But I’m not teaching you, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” he says.  


“ _Marcooo_ ,” I whine and hang on to his arm.  


“No.”  


“ _Pleeeaaase?_ ”  


“The gods of surfing haven’t deemed you worthy yet.”  


“What? No fair!” I let go of his arm and throw my hands in the air in exasperation.  


Marco chuckles. “Sorry, Jean. I don’t make the rules.” I whine again.  


“What do I have to do to be worthy?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at a very unamused looking Marco.  


“You have to,” he pauses, looks around, and leans in close to my face. He gestures for me to do the same and I dip forward until we’re practically nose to nose.  


“Okay, listen closely,” he continues, cupping a hand around my ear, “you have to grab me about ten more sugar packets because this coffee stuff is truly disgusting.”  


I push him over at his goofy answer, laughing. I grab him some more sugar packets anyway and watch as he rips the top off of five at once and dumps them all into the bitter brown liquid.  


“You’re disgusting,” I whisper to his back. Fuck it if he can’t hear me. It must be said.  


Marco smiles at me brightly once he’s polluted the contents of his cardboard cup with the offending sweetener. I try my best not to grimace at his taste in beverages. _So gross_.  


“You wanna walk around a bit?” He asks me. I rip my eyes away from the abused coffee in his hand.  


“It’s like ten degrees out there, man!” I yell, “What happened to ‘I’m not used to this weather’, huh?”  


Marco chuckles almost as if he thinks I’m making it up but answers the question anyway.  


“I just like walking,” he says. Marco stands up before I get a chance to protest and before I know it, we’re marching out the door into the freezing air. To my immense displeasure, it hasn’t heated up one bit since the last time we were outside. I grumble curses about it as we walk. _Stupid fucking weather. Stupid cold. I hate everything_.  


The campus is pretty empty as we walk down one of the winding sidewalks that traverses between countless academic buildings. We pass a few other students and a handful of professors, but most people have taken refuge inside from the biting cold. Unfortunately, it also makes the walk around the university really quiet. The snow eats up any noise Marco and I make as we go, making me shiver at soundlessness of it all. I don’t have a fucking clue how Marco can possibly stand it; it’s fucking eerie.  


I try and remedy the growing silence between us by rushing in front of Marco so we can talk. He seems surprised when I step into his line of sight, but humors me when I begin my assault of questions. We talk about everything I can think of. Favorite movies, how much we hate the weather, what we want to do after college.  


“A teacher? Really?” I ask him when he says he’d like to get a certification for it.  


“Yeah, I mean,” he takes another cautious sip of his mocha, “I like people, I like learning, and I guess I’ve always wanted to do something that’ll help others. I wanted to be a firefighter when I was a kid, but I don’t think that’ll work out, so teaching it is.”  


“I think you’d be a great teacher,” I say, and I mean it. Marco’s everything a teacher should be: patient, kind, selfless, and interested. I can’t think of a better candidate.  


“Thanks, Jean,” Marco says before turning it around on me, “what about you?”  


“Hah?”  


“What do you wanna do once you get out of here?”  


Now see, there’s a reason I haven’t brought this topic up yet. That reason being: I don’t really care. I don’t have any special interests, or talents, or characteristics that would make it easy for me to jump right into one profession. I still haven’t even declared a major. Marco’s not judgemental, but admitting my indifference to him still sounds vastly unappealing.  


“I have no idea,” I confess truthfully. Let no one say Jean Kirschtein is a liar.  


“That’s okay,” Marco says, and I think he picks up on my reluctance to admit it, “you don’t have to know. You’ll figure it out in your own time.”  


I smile and pat him on the back. Damn, this kid. Always knowing just what to say.  


We walk for a few more minutes until we reach a part of campus collectively referred to by the student body as the ‘Frat Freeway.’ The Frat Freeway is essentially a long strip of sidewalk stretching about a quarter of a mile through the university lined exclusively with fraternities and sororities. It’s almost always riddled with beer cans and overly happy chalk drawings advertising for car washes. I try my best to avoid it, but Marco isn’t deterred in the slightest and keeps on walking. We grow silent again and I flounder for something to say to cancel out the deafening quiet. I turn to Marco.  


“So why don’t you like ‘hearing impaired?’” I ask him. His eyes widen at the boldness of the question and I contemplate taking it back when he shocks me and answers in a very serious voice.  


“Well,” he pauses to think and we stop in the middle of the sidewalk. I kick a discarded bottle out of the way. “I guess it varies from person to person, but everyone in the Deaf community has a right to identify by whatever terminology they want. You know, deaf, hard-of-hearing, whatever. Some people don’t mind ‘hearing impaired,’ but a lot of people hate it. Myself included.”  


I wait for him to continue and watch the snow falling around us as he thinks it over. It takes him a while before he finally speaks again.  


“I don’t like it because, I guess, I don’t like seeing my deafness as an impairment. Impaired implies that it’s damaged, and it needs to be fixed; but there’s nothing _to_ fix. Not being able to hear is….part of who I am. And I’m not gonna go around talking like it’s something I need to change about myself.”  


I am paralyzed by Marco’s honesty. _Shit. That was deep_.  


Marco seems struck by his words too, as if he’s never actually thought about it until this moment in time. Or like he’s never had an excuse to say it out loud and he’s scared of what will happen if he does. He seems at a loss for words; he’s said too much in too short a time and doesn’t know what to do. I’m pretty intimate with that feeling, so I reach out my hand to him and squeeze his bicep as a way of telling him he isn’t alone. Marco smiles when he feels the pressure on his arm and we look at each other in a moment of silent camaraderie. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever felt comfortable with the lingering tranquility in the air between us.  


I’m just settling into the quiet when I feel the vibrations under my feet.  


Marco yelps and I know he’s felt it, too. ‘ _What is that?_ ’ he mouths as he reaches out to grip my arms and steady himself. ‘ _I don’t know!_ ’ I mouth back, frantically searching the area for the source of the tremors. _Fuck, is this what an earthquake feels like? What are you supposed to do again? Find shelter? Or was it stay away from buildings? FUCK._  


The grip on my scrawny arms tightens and I am made vaguely aware of Marco’s face in my line of sight. He’s shaking me back and forth to get my attention and yelling at me to find some cover but I can’t hear him over the sound of screeching violins.  


Wait. What?  


I slap my hand over Marco’s mouth as I try and figure out what the fuck is going on. My questions are all answered once I turn around to the frat house looming behind us. I gasp in shock and turn Marco towards the spectacle so that he can see it, too. _Am I hallucinating? IS MARCO SEEING THIS?!_  


The next twenty seconds are the most bizarre and confusing seconds of my life. I turn Marco to face the building behind us; a large brick monstrosity covered in ivy and huge glass windows. One of these windows - about halfway up the side of the building - seems to have smoke coming out of it. Not cigarette smoke, but the kind of smoke that I have to deal with regularly when Hange lights something on fire. I reach for my phone out of instinct, sure that I’ll need to call the fire department, but am unable to dial in the number once the tremors beneath my feet grow stronger. Marco and I cling to each other for support and watch in mystified horror as the smoking window opens and a couch springs free.  


“ _HOLY SHIT HOLYSHIT HOLYSHITHOLYSHIT!_ ” I scream, watching the couch descend the thirty or so feet from the window to the ground, burning as it goes. I think the couch might be orange, but it’s kind of hard to tell with the flames engulfing it. I let out another girlish shriek when it hits the pavement ten feet in front of us. For the first time ever, I am immensely glad that Marco isn’t able to hear me, because the sound that just came out of my mouth was fucking pathetic.  


Marco looks on with horror as it breaks into pieces before us, flaming shards flying in every direction. He yanks me back to avoid getting hit in the chest with a burning couch cushion and I watch in horror as it flies past where my head had been moments ago. I mouth the freckled boy beside me an extremely grateful thanks.  


“What’s happening?” He yells over the sound of violins. I put my finger to my lip to silence him so I can listen to the tremor-inducing music assaulting us from the fourth floor of the frat house.  


It takes me a good ten seconds, but I finally identify the song blasting from above. I remember it from the middle school orchestra Mom forced me to partake in. _I hate this song_.  


“It’s _Ride of the Valkyries_ ,” I yell back.  


“What’s that?” Marco shouts and I let him drag me away from the burning carcass of the couch. The vibrations beneath our feet get weaker as we haul ass away from the scene of the crime. At least, I think it’s a crime. Does lighting your own couch on fire count as arson?  


“It’s a piece of classical music. Really popular for fight scenes and shit,” I tell him in a normal voice once the booming trumpets no longer threaten to burst my eardrums.  


“Oh.” Marco stops to consider my statement. “Well in that case, I’m glad I couldn’t hear it.”  


I stare at him and watch in fascinated disbelief while he bites his bottom lip, trying desperately not to crack up at his own joke.  


It doesn’t last long.  


Marco bursts out laughing, doubling over when he can’t breathe properly and slapping his knees when he finds enough strength in his muscles to do so. I try hold out for a bit longer - still in shock from the spectacle we just witnessed - but that doesn’t last, either. Soon I’m laughing with him, doubling over in the snow and dropping to my knees as I gasp for air. Marco joins me on the freezing ground and we lay down side by side with our faces towards the sky, watching our breaths cloud up in front of us as we pant and laugh.  


Eventually we force ourselves to calm down and just stay on our backs in the snow. Neither of us seem to care that it’s cold. I think we’re both just glad we’re alive….and maybe we’re both wondering if the coffee we drank was spiked with some sort of hallucinogen. (Okay, I might be the only one thinking that, but it seems pretty plausible right now). Marco still lets out the occasional chuckle while he mulls over our present situation. It makes me want to laugh again and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself in control.  


After a few minutes of staring at the sky, Marco finally decides to speak up.  


“You saw the flaming couch too, right?” He says.  


“I don’t even know anymore, Marco.”  


“Good enough.”  


.  


..  


…  


We end up fleeing the immediate area when we notice campus police rolling up Frat Freeway. I grab Marco’s hand the second I hear the sirens and motion for him to run; he doesn’t question my leadership, and we sprint like a pair of mad men back to Garrison House, because it’s closer. Once inside I drop Marco’s hand and let myself relax. We look at each other and sigh once we realize the immediate danger is passed and that we’ve both somehow managed to survive our heart-stopping dash across campus.  


“So,” Marco drawls once he’s caught his breath, “same time tomorrow?”  


I look at him; my crazy, freckled friend standing in the doorway with snow in his hair and his clothes, a truly blissed out expression on his face. I smile at the blush on his cheeks from the cold. Or maybe from the running.  


“Yeah,” I say, “Same time tomorrow.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so there's a lot going on in this chapter....A few things I'd like to mention:  
> Marco's sugar obsession in 100% based on me, as is Jean's taste in music. (The album that they listen to on the record player is called Let it Bleed, and it's definitely one of my favorites).  
> The story about the flaming couch is absolutely true, though it isn't mine. A friend of mine went to school in Indiana and apparently everyone gets really excited during the indie 500 and he was walking through the quad when someone lobbed a couch out the window while blasting ride of the valkyries. (here's a link if you want to listen to it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XRU1AJsXN1g)  
> The whole conversation regarding hearing impaired vs. deaf is a legitimate topic of discussion in the Deaf community. A lot of people don't like it, but again, that is very much up to the individual. Just because Marco doesn't like it, it doesn't mean others don't use it or find it more comfortable. It's really up to each person to determine their own labels.


	5. That Starry, Starry Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean rides an emotional rollercoaster with Marco at the helm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A LOT OF NOTES BEFORE YOU READ THIS:  
> 1\. Ableist language ahead. Quite a lot of it. Please be careful if this might offend you.  
> 2\. Conversations that are signed as opposed to spoken are fairly well marked, but basically 'they look like this.' (one quotation mark instead of two)  
> 3\. There are some sads ahead. I'm sorry.  
> 4\. I strongly recommend listening to the song Vincent, by Don McLean while reading.  
> 5\. Also a quick reminder that even though Jean is getting better at being around Marco, he's still not perfect and he still has a lot to learn about handling Marco's hearing loss respectfully. Please be patient with him.

You know how some people just have these very specific countenances? Like the way they carry themselves and talk and walk and act all come together into this image of a completely different persona? Some people you just talk to for five seconds and you can immediately identify it, some people you have to spend some time around before you figure it out.

Armin, for one, has the countenance of a very worn out high school teacher. Took me about a week to piece the shards of his being back together and get the whole picture. It’s just undeniable in everything he does. The way he has to remind himself to roll his shoulders back when people are watching him; the way he talks with his hands like he’s constantly explaining something; how he walks with the quiet reassurance of someone who’s already made it through the roughest part of his life. Eren, on the other hand, reminds me of a very angry chihuahua. I probably don’t need to explain why.

And Marco, as I quickly discover, reminds me of the protagonist in an old Western film.

It’s not that he walks around carrying pistols on his hips or anything - like he would ever even pick up a gun, ha! - it’s just in the little things he does. The little things, like how he doesn’t _ever_ have to remind himself to straighten up because he’s slouching over his computer. How he never fixes or picks at his clothing the way I constantly do. The way he talks with a slight accent that I still can’t place (dammit) and the most charming manner of speaking I’ve ever heard. Dude could charm the pants off Ebenezer Scrooge, it’s ridiculous.

But the thing about Marco that most reminds me of an old Western star is how fucking guarded he is.

I don’t mean that he’s, like, rude or anything. I don’t think Marco could be rude if he tried. It’s just that Marco doesn’t like to reveal anything about himself if he doesn’t have to. He’ll talk all about his favorite books, his collection of succulents, or how he misses his hometown, but the second I ask him about his family or his hearing he’ll turn the conversation around on me. The obnoxious thing is that he’s so damn good at it that I hardly even realize that I’m being redirected until I’m back in my dorm room at the end of the day.

Marco let’s his guard down for the first time on the second Saturday of February.

.

..

…

The Saturday in question was not going well to begin with. I got up early (like I always do) to get to work, complained about the cold, then complained some more about actually having to _go_ to work. My only saving grace was the promise of an afternoon spent with the freckled dork who was quickly becoming my best friend. 

Marco and I had been pretty close ever since the incident with the flaming couch. We’d starting making weekly plans and little traditions since we were traumatized together. Crazy how something so arbitrary can bring two people so close.

Thursdays quickly became _our days_ ; where we’d spend every waking second after English glued at the hip. At first we went to get coffee together, but Marco’s sugar obsession ruined it for him so we gave up on that idea after a week of him complaining about how bitter mochas were. Since then, it has become tradition to go get lunch somewhere off campus then walk back together and play videogames or talk until one of us crashes. This nearly proved disastrous when Marco fell asleep during our millionth round of Smash Bros - a game I totally kicked his ass at, by the way - at my place and I had to wake him up and practically carry him back to his dorm in the middle of the night since we didn’t have an extra bed that day. The man sleeps like a rock. Also, he’s got three inches and ten pounds on me so it’s not like dragging him across the campus was an easy feat for my wimpy ass. 

We’ve also decided to spend every Saturday night together - typically in Marco’s room because mine is already infested with Jaegers. The usual schedule is as follows: I go to work. I suffer. Marco picks me up. We walk back to Maria together. I complain. He listens. We order crappy pizza. We watch movies. One of us falls asleep. The end. Wash, rinse, repeat.

So even though this particular Saturday at Studio 104 was sucking so far, at least I had something to look forward to at the end of it. It was kind of like my treat for social interaction. And _god did I need it_. 

“Jeaaan,” Hange calls from their stool behind me, “could you grab me some more Vermillion?”

I should probably mention that Hange goes through….‘experimental phases’ a lot. Like, every week or so. This particular week has them on an acrylic painting kick and it’s been absolute hell. Every paintable surface in Studio 104 has been covered in Hange’s broad strokes - including my desk, which now displays a lovely meadow scene with frolicking deer and beautiful wildflowers. I fucking hate it.

“Which one’s Vermillion?” I shout over my shoulder as I search through the tub of paint tubes at my feet. I flip a few over and read the labels, but none of them seem to be the color they want. _Why are there so many?_

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked! Vermillion is a brilliant scarlet pigment made from the powdered mineral cinnabar-”

“Nevermind I found it!” I cut them off, thankful that I was able to locate the paint before they could continue yapping at me about it.

“Wonderful! Bring it here!” Hange says. They hold out one hand behind their back and make grabby motions while their other hand continues to spread paint across a preposterously large canvas. I walk closer cautiously, not too sure what I’ll find once I reach the creation. The tube of paint is quickly deposited into their waiting hand and I watch in mild fascination as they yank the top off to squirt more red goop onto a waiting pallet. I take Hange’s momentary distraction to check out their masterpiece, but regret it almost immediately.

“Um, whatcha painting there, boss?” I ask, feeling like maybe an explanation will somehow make the image before me less terrifying.

It doesn’t.

“Oh, why, it’s a visual interpretation of humanity and how it’s grown too large for the infrastructure it’s made to support itself,” Hange says. I try to follow along, really, but all it looks like to me is a horrifying, skinless giant peering over the top of a very large, very fortified, wall. The muscles on its face stretch grotesquely as it smiles down on a crowd of panicked civilians, all of whom are running in different directions from the frightening figure. _Where do they come up with this shit?_

“Fascinating,” is what I tell them.

 _This is the worse thing I’ve ever seen_ , is what I think.

“Isn’t it,” Hange croons, dipping their brush in the red - excuse me, _vermillion_ \- and beginning to paint in some unnecessarily detailed blood splatters. I turn away in disgust, deciding instead to spend my last few hours in miserable, isolated silence instead of watching Hange’s artistic process play out.

I return to the cashier desk and glare down at the prancing deer. _You are making this job so much harder for me_ , I think when they seem to be staring tauntingly back up at me.

‘ _Come play with us, Jean!_ ’ they say.

 _Fuck off_ , I respond. I cover their expectant expressions with my sketchbook so I won’t have to deal with them anymore and start to draw. Somehow, I manage to completely lose track of time as I move my hand across the page, trying my best not to smudge the charcoal hatch marks covering the paper. I stop thinking entirely as I focus on the motion, not even processing what I’m drawing until the bell over the door rings and I’m forced to look up from the sketch I’ve been doing on autopilot.

The bell turns out to herald our first customer in over an hour and I know right away that it’s pointless to try and talk to her, but also it’s part of my job to do so. _Fuck my life_ , I think as I stand up to talk to the woman at the front of the shop: an elderly broad with tiny wire frame glasses and a hideous pink shawl.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” By some miracle, I manage to smile as I speak. _Employee of the month, here I come_.

The woman says nothing and I immediately think back to that Saturday over a month ago when I first met Marco. He didn’t respond to my questions either…. _Maybe she’s deaf, too?_

It turns out that my brilliant assumption about her hearing capabilities is very inaccurate. After making said assumption, I begin to sign in her direction, using some of the gestures Marco’s been teaching me.

‘Help you?’ I ask with my hands. The woman doesn’t respond again, but this time she does look at me. Not exactly nicely, either. _Shit_.

“Excuse me, what were those hand gestures?” She says, puffing out her chest and putting her wrinkly little hands on her bony hips.

“I, uh, well I thought,” I gulp and try and suck some air back into my lungs. _Dammit, Kirshtein, haven’t you learned to stop jumping to conclusions yet?_ “You didn’t answer, and I thought, y’know, maybe you were deaf?”

Shit. That sounded way worse out loud than it did in my head. And wouldn’t you know it? She doesn’t seem too thrilled by my frantic explanation, either. The woman glares at me and purses her lips before continuing.

“I find that extremely offensive, young man. To assume something so horrible just because you didn’t get the reaction you wanted. Do I look stupid to you? Huh? Is that what you think I am?”

The urge to smack her is practically unbearable. _Stupid?_ I seeth, _is that what she thinks?_ I have to clench my hand into a fist to stop myself, but I know it’s no use. Even if I don’t knock the shit out of the old crone, I’ll at least end up saying something I probably shouldn’t.

Mr. brain genie doesn’t even try and stop me as I open my mouth to berate the hag in front of me. Maybe because he knows that doing so will only make the reading on the BS o’meter go up. Maybe because he knows it’ll be fucking pointless. Maybe because, for once, he’s actually on my side.

“ _Excuse you?_ ” I grind out between gritted teeth. “ _What did you just say?_ ”

“Oh, didn’t you hear me? Are you deaf? Unbelievable!” She shouts, hoisting her purse up higher onto her shoulder and turning to storm out of the store. My heart is beating unnaturally fast in my chest and my nails are driving little crescent shapes into my palms. Too bad I don’t give a shit.

“You know, _ma’am_ ,” the word tastes like cement in my mouth, “being _deaf_ doesn’t make you _stupid_ ….but ignorance sure does.” 

“Why I never!” She gasps, clutching her fake pearls to her chest like she just witnessed the birth of Christ right here in the middle of some hippy’s art gallery. “I ought to tell your manager about your behaviour, mister!”

I think back to that day in the shop a few weeks ago and smile wickedly when I remember how furious Hange was with Levi for exploding at Marco. Levi still apologizes to me at random sometimes. 

“Somehow, I doubt they’ll care very much,” I tell her smugly, smirking as she shrinks back from where I stand. She gasps again and flails her arm around behind her, trying to find the door handle. Once she’s got it in her decrepit grip, she pumps the handle and rushes out the door. Surprisingly fast for someone as ancient as she is, I might add. 

“Was that a customer, Jean?” Hange yells from the back. I slowly pick my way towards them. I’m still fuming in silent rage, but secretly, I’m kind of impressed with my own wit. I try not to let it show on my face when I reach Hange, though.

“Not anyone we’d want to do business with,” I shrug and return to the sketchbook lying on the desk. The charcoal fell on the floor when I went to answer the door, so I lean down and pick it up before someone steps on it and crushes it. When I straighten back up, Hange is standing behind me, staring wild-eyed down at my messily thrown together sketch. I bite the inside of my cheek when I notice them looking and I can’t help but feel unconscious. I move to cover it with my arm, but I’m swatted away by one of Hange’s callused hands. 

“This is very good, Jean,” they say, almost in reverence. Blood rushes to my face at the compliment.

“It’s just lines on a page,” I mutter under my breath and tug the pad of paper away from Hange’s grip. All the confidence I had built up from my confrontation with an ancient Nurse Ratched has suddenly drained from my body, leaving me more than slightly embarrassed about my pitiful art skills. Hange may make some fucking awful shit, but at least it _looks_ good. 

“That’s what all art is!” They laugh anyway, grabbing the sketchbook back from me. “This is truly, very impressive! Here, look.” Hange steps back and holds the page out in front of them so I can look at it. I can’t see it boosting my confidence at all, but I decide to humor them and stare at the paper anyway.

It’s….not bad. Too my surprise. I usually hate my art, but this isn’t completely terrible. _Way to go, Jean_ , I think as I examine the picture before me. It’s nothing special really, just a quick (yet actually quite accurate) sketch of a ship at sea, illuminated by nothing but the stars. I can easily pick out a few errors with the vessel, but I have to give myself credit: the shadows are fucking amazing. The starlight reflects perfectly on the sails, the boat legitimately looks like it’s gliding through the water and _oh God, did I really draw the waves that well?_

I’m still silently congratulating myself when Hange throws the sketchbook down on the desk again and begins to speak.

“Have you ever tried painting?” They ask. I don’t know if I like where this conversation is going. I shake my head despite my better judgment.

“Excellent!” Hange jumps for joy and pulls on one of my sleeves so that I’ll follow them to where they still have their supplies set up. I’m immediately shoved towards a blank canvas and pushed down so that I’m sitting on one of the uncomfortable stools. A paintbrush and some acrylics are thrust into my hands before I even have time to blink.

“Wha-” I start, but Hange shuts me up before I can protest.

“Paint! Go, go! I’ll worry about the shop, you just try it out,” they’re practically bouncing off the walls with excitement now, making it all the more impossible for me to refuse the offer. It’s also probably not in my best interest to refuse my boss anything if I want them to, you know, keep being my boss.

I look back to the canvas in front of me and squint. It’s not too big, which relieves me for some reason. Maybe because I won’t be ruining as much space or wasting as much paint? Fuck if I know. I haven’t even held a paintbrush since kindergarden. Hesitantly, I dip my brush into a generous glob of blue paint and raise my hand to start. _Do I do the background first? Or the front part? Or is it more of a dark colors to light colors kind of thing? Fuck, I wish Hange would have given me some instruction here._

I turn around to see that my boss has vanished, leaving me at the mercy of my thoughts. Damn them. I sigh and raise the brush to the canvas again. This time I manage to press it to the surface, resulting in a smudge of blue that looks pitifully out of place on the otherwise pristine cloth. I repeat the action until I’ve blocked out what I think might be the water from my drawing. 

Slowly, I build up a rhythm. And by slowly, I mean that there are probably glaciers moving faster than I’m painting. At some point I switch between colors, but I hardly notice it until two hours later when the bell over the door rings again and I check the time on my phone.

“ _Shit_ ,” I hiss when I end up smudging the screen with white paint. I try to rub it off with my shirt, but all it does is spread the pigment around some more. Defeated, I put the device back into my pocket and my paintbrush back into a jar of water. Distantly I recognize Marco’s voice talking sweetly with Hange and come to the well thought out conclusion that he must be here to rescue me. The realization makes me pack up the remaining supplies faster than should be humanly possible and I’m jogging towards the front of the store with my backpack in no time.

“Hey,” I say as I approach. Marco flashes a smile when he sees me and I gesture for him to follow me out so we can get this show on the road.

“Oh, wait, Jean,” Hange says from where they stand near Marco, “wait here.”

“Uh….,” I glance at Marco, hoping he doesn’t mind my boss’ sudden intrusion into our afternoon plans. He signs a quick ‘ok’ to me and I smile gratefully at his ridiculous patience. _This man is way too good for you, Jean_ , the brain genie says. I almost wish I could disagree, but we both know it’s true.

Marco and I exchange a few other pleasantries as we wait for Hange to return. He asks about work and I try to tell him how truly boring it was - deciding to leave out my brief encounter with the grim reaper - but I forget half of the signs I need to complete the sentence and end up saying it out loud. Marco still smiles when I try, though. I think he finds it endearing; even if I do keep messing up the order you’re supposed to put things in. 

“Here we are!” A voice says behind me. I turn around expecting to see Hange, but am instead met with a wooden box thrust obnoxiously close to my face. It rattles at me and I grab it hesitantly.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking the receptacle from Hange and flicking it open. Inside is a brush and a row of paint tubes, much smaller than the ones that Hange uses, but labeled in exactly the same, pretentious manner. (I mean, Burnt Umber, seriously? _It’s fucking brown_ ).

I look back up at Hange, expecting an explanation, but none comes. Looks like I’ll have to play into their game. Dammit.

“What’s this for?” I close the lid and shake the box. The paints and brushes clatter around satisfyingly.

“For practice, of course!” Hange smiles at me, pushing the box towards my chest even though I’m already holding on to it. “Every artist should have some paint!”

“That’s really nice but I’m not really….I mean I don’t….” _God, why can’t I come up with a valid excuse. I just don’t want this shit, okay?_

“Just take it,” Hange says. I huff in resignation, but stuff the wooden chest into my backpack anyway.

“Thanks.” 

“You two have a lovely evening,” Hange calls out once Marco and I have stepped out the door. I wave at them, closing the door as we walk towards campus in the growing dark.

‘What do you want to eat?’ Marco asks as soon as we’re a respectable distance from the Studio. At least, I think that’s what he asked. There was definitely something about eating in there.

In my head I think, _y’know, Chinese food sounds really great right now_. But I don’t know the sign for ‘Chinese food.’

‘Pizza,’ I tell him instead, because the sign for pizza is super easy.

“Really? We had pizza last time,” Marco says out loud, “don’t you want, I dunno, Chinese or something?”

Marco you beautiful human being. 

“That’s cool, too,” I say. _Lies. That sounds fucking excellent_.

“Cool, there’s a place on the way,” Marco gently cups my elbow and steers me towards the building in question. We place our orders once we get inside, though Marco insists that I do the actual ordering because he doesn’t know how to pronounce any of the items on the menu. I gladly humble him, also using my time at the counter to order extra spring rolls because why the fuck not. 

Our food is ready within minutes and in no time at all, we’re walking through the hallway of Maria House towards Marco’s room.

A few words about Marco’s room: it’s a lot bigger than mine is, a lot cleaner, covered in so much of his stuff that it doesn’t even feel like a dorm, and it’s quickly becoming my favorite place on campus.

Marco has a bunk bed (which makes staying at his place a whole lot easier, let me tell you), but for obvious reasons, only occupies the bottom half of it. He uses the top one as storage space most of the time, but he also hangs blankets over the side sometimes to make a little cave out of his bed because he’s still secretly a six year old and thinks blanket forts are cool.

His desk may be the only place in his room that’s messier than mine. I keep mine clear because vinyl records are pretty delicate and I don’t want to ruin them accidentally, but Marco has absolutely no reservations about putting shit he enjoys out in the open. His desk is lined with all his favorite books, some of which are stacked into makeshift shelves to rest other books on top of. There’s also a little section of his desk reserved for cacti (along with his entire windowsill. He has _a lot_ of succulents.) that he keeps in these sickeningly adorable glass terrariums. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had names for each and every one of them. He probably does, but I can’t bring myself to ask because the answer might be too dorky, even for me. 

Behind his desk is a giant cork board overflowing with polaroids and newspaper clippings. The articles are usually about various plays or musicals - he _is_ a theater major, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised - but Marco refuses to tell me about any of the pictures. Or, at least, I suspect he’s refusing to. Every time I ask, he turns away and pretends not to have seen me talking to him. I don’t bring it up anymore. 

We step inside with our haul of greasy food and assume our usual set up on the floor with Marco leaning on his bed and me slumping against the wall opposite him. Our feet tangle together in the middle of the room as we set up our buffet around us so that everything is within reach and we can just pass things back and forth without having to move. It’s quite a convenient set-up, if I do say so myself.

“So,” I say between spoonfuls of fried rice, “movie tonight?”

It quickly became common knowledge between the two of us that Marco has seen a surprisingly dismal number of films in his lifetime. I yelled at him at first for being an uncultured loser (which he still kind of is), but took it back once he explained to me that he’s never really watched anything because their family television didn’t have subtitles as an option. Since then, I have made it my sworn duty to educate his poor soul by bringing in my laptop and watching every classic he’s missed out on with him. With the subtitles on, of course. 

“Yeah, sure. What movie do I have to watch this time?” Marco asks, playfully kicking the leg I have haphazardly strewn across his own limbs.

“You ever seen _The Producers?_ ” I ask him. That’d be right up his alley. A play within a play, what more could a drama nerd want out of life?

“Like, the musical?” He giggles, “Nope. What am I in for?”

“It’s great! You’ll love it. It’s about a writer and his bro who try to produce a play that will make no money at all and end up making a sensational musical about Hitler. Seriously, it’s perfect for you,” I tell him in one, very excited breath.

“Okay, okay. Let me just make sure I read your lips right,” Marco laughs and holds up his hands to stop me, “a musical about _Hitler_?”

“You got it,” I say. I spell out H-I-T-L-E-R with my hands just so he’s one hundred percent sure he knows what he’s getting into. Now would be an awful time for me to find out he’s secretly Jewish or something.

“My body is ready.”

“You’re disgusting,” I kick him in the leg, but pull out my laptop none the less. Finding the movie in my downloads takes less than a minute, but figuring out how to put the subtitles on proves to be more of a challenge. Marco comes to sit beside me and tries to get me to figure it out by pointing at the screen and helpfully suggesting to ‘ _try that one_.’ We get it running after a few minutes of jokingly yelling at each other and clicking on random parts of the screen; resulting in us exiting out of the window twice, and hitting the subtitles option by accident.

‘Bed?’ Marco signs once everything is ready and fully operational.

‘Okay,’ I respond. I stand and hold my hand out to pull him up so we can meander towards the blanket fort together. He may secretly be a six year old, but I’m not complaining. Especially when his bed is so much more comfortable than the floor. 

I hit play once we’ve both settled in with our backs to the wall and my computer resting on the mattress between us. Marco doesn’t take his eyes off the screen once as the movie opens, chuckling while he watches Zero Mostel make out with a haggard old lady for money. 

Seeing the old woman on screen makes my stomach flip and I think back to earlier. _Fuck her_ , I think, _how could anyone think something so disgusting about someone as saintly as Marco?_

I get my answer sooner than I thought.

The opening credits start rolling by on the computer screen in front of us, but Marco’s stopped paying attention; instead patting around his back pockets for a phone that seems to be going off. _Must be on vibrate_.

He pulls the device out of his jeans and squints at the screen. I wonder briefly if he’s gotten a text, but it seems unlikely since his phone keeps buzzing. And buzzing. And buzzing. 

“You gonna answer that?” I ask him when he looks back up at me apologetically. Marco smirks knowingly. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, “I’m just gonna hold this phone up to my ear and listen to whatever it is they have to say.” He rolls his eyes jokingly.

That sarcastic piece of shit.

“Haha. Very funny. Who’s trying to call you? A telemarketer or something?” I ask, leaning over to see the screen in front of him and pausing the movie so we don’t miss any more shenanigans. 

Marco’s face drops. His usually sunny demeanor is replaced with something much more….well, guarded. The charming part of his Western movie star persona has gone into hiding, leaving the stoney shell behind. I lean over again to try and read the name on his phone because I know what that expression means. It means that he won’t be telling me anything.

“It’s….,” Marco licks his lips and looks away. He holds the phone out for me to see and I freeze in shock.

Not just because Marco actually opened up for once, but because the name on the screen makes me think I must be hallucinating.

The name on the screen reads ‘Mom.’ 

“Wait….doesn’t your mom know that you can’t - does she - is she?” I start to ramble. Marco shakes his head.

“She knows,” he speaks quietly, almost a whisper, “she just doesn’t particularly care. She leaves me voicemails all the time.” 

“But you can’t-”

“I know.” Marco bows his head and gently tosses the phone across the bed so it lands somewhere amongst the pillows. He leans back against the wall, suddenly drained, and looking for all the world like he’s awaiting his death sentence. Marco gulps. “She knows.”

I watch as all the life I’m so used to seeing in Marco’s eyes slips away. He bites his lip. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. 

“What does she expect you to do, then?” I prompt him. An answer seems unlikely at this point, but what kind of friend would I be if I let him spiral into depression right now?

Marco sighs. One of his hands raises to scratch absentmindedly at the back of his neck as he thinks his response over. “She expects me to magically _get better_ ,” he spits out bitterly. I flinch at the tone his voice takes on, fairly positive that I’ve never heard him speak so maliciously in all the weeks I’ve known him. 

“What do you mean _get better_? You’re not sick!” I slap the pillow next to me. Fuck, I’m so fed up with some of the people I’ve met today. I can feel the BS o’meter threatening to break from my sudden outburst, but I can’t bring myself to give a shit when Marco’s sitting next to me looking this miserable.

“No,” Marco says, his jaw clenching like he’s debating every word, “I’m not. We just….don’t exactly see eye to eye sometimes. That’s all.”

I don’t buy it. Marco knows I don’t buy it. He’s too fucking good at reading my facial expressions like words on a page, there’s no way he thinks I’m believing this crap. I’m about to call him out on it when his discarded phone starts buzzing in the mess of blankets by my feet. I shut my mouth and Marco closes his eyes. We sit in silence as his phone continues vibrating between us, calling out to him mockingly. I want so badly to chuck the stupid thing against a wall, but I have a feeling Marco won’t really appreciate me breaking his phone.

Marco finally caves after four or five buzzes, grabbing his phone from it’s resting place and slamming his finger into the ‘end call’ button. He lets out a sigh of relief once it’s over, but I doubt it’s done very much to make him feel any better. I hesitantly reach out one of my hands and place it on his leg, not sure if he’ll welcome the gesture or see it as a sign of unwanted pity. Fortunately, he seems to understand, because he lays his freckled hand on top of mine and pats it knowingly instead of slapping it away. We sit with our hands stuck together like that for a few minutes; Marco measuring his breathing as he tries to piece himself back together and me trying to count the freckles on his hand. After several minutes of silence, I decide to try something a little more daring. I glance up to make sure Marco isn’t watching me. He’s not. Smiling, I gently place a finger from my other hand on a cluster of freckles near his knuckle. Marco looks down to see what I’m doing, but doesn’t try and stop me, even as I begin to move my finger around in a weird imitation of connect-the-dots.

‘Try something?’ I sign to him after having traced a few shapes absentmindedly into the back of his hand. Marco squints suspiciously at me, but nods anyway at my request. Smiling, I leap up from my position on the bed and push my way through the blanket fort. I motion for Marco to follow me out and hold the covers back for him so he can escape the confines of the lower bunk. He accepts cautiously, but still lets me pull him to his feet. Once outside, I force him to sit on the ground at the foot of the bunk, laughing slightly when he attempts to fight me on it. _Just let me do this for you, you big goober_. 

‘Stay here,’ I tell him before hopping over to where I’ve left my backpack lying on the floor. I try my best not to step in any discarded Chinese food, but still somehow end up careening into a pile of fortune cookie wrappers. 

“Ok, ready?” I say once I’ve retrieved the desired materials from my bag, dodging take-out boxes as I make my way back to Marco’s side. 

“What should I be ready for?” He asks. He sounds a little nervous, but still scoots over so I can sit next to him. Marco’s trying to figure out what I’m holding in my hands, but like hell am I letting him in on the surprise before I actually start.

‘Close….’ I start to sign to him….until I remember that I don’t know the word for ‘eyes’. I settle for poking Marco’s eyelid, repeating the motions a few more times because I’m not entirely sure he gets what I’m attempting to say. He laughs once he does, raising his hands in surrender and closing his eyes contentedly. 

I smile at his display of trust, reaching behind me to where I’d placed the wooden box of paints when I sat down. Carefully, I flip the lid open and reach for a few of the tubes of paint, squeezing their contents onto the back of my hand. With my other hand I reach out and gently grab Marco’s arm, pulling it over so that it rests on the top of my knees. I keep my eyes on Marco’s face, making sure I don’t accidentally dislocate his shoulder or some shit as I go. Once I’ve got his arm into the right position I take out the paintbrush Hange gave me and dip it into the paint on my hand. 

Marco’s eyes flicker open when he feels me press the bristles into the skin of his arm, but I let him watch as I work anyway. I begin slowly, knowing that I have his blessing, but still not wanting to ruin the moment. He watches while I drag the brush along his skin, smearing it with navy and purple and white in an imitation of a night sky. I make sure to avoid every single one of Marco’s freckles, blocking them out with yellow and white so that they look like stars. He smiles at the sight and I hold up his forearm for him to see once I’m satisfied with how it looks. I’m admiring it myself when I feel Marco’s arm jolt in my hands.

“Marco?” I ask as he pulls my masterpiece from my grip. I try to get him to meet my questioning gaze, but he’s hiding his face in his shoulder. Marco’s body trembles and I feel myself beginning to lose it. _Shit, Jean, you made him cry. Why are you so bad at making people feel better?_

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he says between shaking gasps. I can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying anymore, so I settle on putting away the remaining paint and wrapping my clean arm around his trembling frame. Marco leans into me and I hold him to my side. “Thanks, Jean. For everything.”

I pause. _Did Marco just thank me? Oh, thank God. At least I didn’t make him cry in the bad kind of way._

“You don’t have to thank me,” I nudge his head so that he’s facing me while I talk to him. And it’s true: he doesn’t have to thank me. As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t do shit. I mean yeah, I painted on him because I didn’t want to watch Marco break down in front of me, but I also did it because I needed a way to calm down after dealing with so many idiots today. The BS o’meter was my real motivator. 

_No it wasn’t_ , the brain genie says, _don’t lie to yourself, Jean. You did it because you wanted to see Marco smile again_.

 _Shut up and let me maintain my aloof yet self-centered image_ , I tell him.

“I love it,” Marco whispers, examining my work by turning his arm from side to side, “it’s beautiful.”

“Really?” I ask him when his voice lowers in reverence. Marco nods and leans further into my side. I let him rest his head on my shoulder and we sit together in comfortable silence for a few moments before the urge to smudge his face with leftover paint becomes unbearable and I wipe the back of my hand across his cheek. Marco sqwaks at the sudden intrusion, but doesn’t let it deter him from running his finger through the paint on his face before poking me in the forehead. 

“You’re such a child!” I push him off of me and stand. Marco follows suit; we both laugh when we see how messed up both of our faces have become. Distantly, I register the sound of a phone vibrating and furrow my brows once a quick pat to my back pockets reveal that it isn’t mine. _Fuck, not this again_.

I turn to find the source of the noise and pull Marco’s phone out from underneath one of his abandoned pillows. The temptation to read the screen and see who might be calling is, frankly, overwhelming, but I can’t bring myself to snoop in on Marco’s private life with him standing less than a foot away from me. I hand the phone over to him instead, watching his face scrunch up as he checks the screen.

“What?” He mutters under his breath before unlocking it with a few taps of his thumbs. _Not a call then. Must be a text_. 

“Is everything okay?” I ask him. _Please let it be okay_. 

“I….I don’t know,” Marco looks back up to me. He doesn’t look like he’s on the verge of tears anymore, but the somewhat hollow look behind his eyes doesn’t make me feel any better. “My sister says she needs to talk to me.”

“Okay, um. You should do that.” _Are you always this fucking unhelpful?_ The genie asks. 

“Y-yeah. Just….gimme a minute. I have to go, uh. Facetime her,” Marco says, turning around and heading out the door so he can speak with her. I sit back on his bed and wait. And wait. And wait. Seconds turn into minutes. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been sitting here for hours before Marco finally returns. The ashen look on his usually sunny face makes me think that I’m probably not going to like what he has to say next.

I don’t, by the way. 

Marco looks down at his feet once he’s stepped through the door, dropping his phone on his desk with a jarring clatter of plastic on wood. I watch - mildly terrified - as he walks the rest of the way over to the bunk bed and sits down slowly beside me.

“M-my brother got arrested,” he sighs. Marco hides his face in his hands at the declaration. “That’s w-why she was trying to call me.”

“Marco….” I trail off when I realize that he definitely can’t read my lips from the position he’s in. I settle for rubbing soothing circles into the spot between his shoulder blades, wishing that I was at least marginally better at the whole _comforting_ thing. His chest heaves beneath my palm and _dammit Marco, please don’t cry again_. 

He doesn’t cry. Marco just takes a few shuddering deep breaths that seem to wrack his whole body before sitting up and turning to me. I half expect him to put up those fucking walls again to block me out - like he always does when he’s upset - but I’m pleasantly surprised when the old Western movie star mask doesn’t make a reappearance for the night. Instead, Marco looks at me without attempting to hide the broken look in his eyes. I consider saying something to him, but nothing I have to say seems appropriate given the situation.

Silently, I remove my hand from Marco’s back and ball it into a fist, moving it in a few clockwise rotations in front of my chest. I hope I got the motion right. 

Marco smiles at my pitiful attempt at Sign Language, but I assume I did the gesture properly because he signs a quick ‘thank you’ back to my awkward apology. I smile back at him.

“Should we finish the movie?” He asks after a few moments of staring at each other with dopey smiles on our faces.

“Sure, whatever you want,” I tell him, but pull the blankets covering our cave back nonetheless so we can seat ourselves inside where I left my laptop. I press play once we’ve settled into our usual spots.

We watch the movie in silence; both of us laughing when something stupid catches our attention. Marco fucking loses it at the _Springtime For Hitler_ scene, even though he can’t hear the music accompanying the awful lyrics and gaudy costumes. I have to hold him by the shoulders so he doesn’t flop over from how much he’s laughing. 

“This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says between fits of giggles. I am not inclined to disagree with him. We keep watching.

We’re nearing the end of the movie when Marco speaks up again, this time a little more sombre than before. 

“Jean?” I hum in response. “Why stars?” 

“Whaddaya mean?” I mumble. It’s getting late. I’m getting tired. Articulating my thoughts is far from being my first priority.

“Why’d you paint stars on me?” Marco asks, lifting his arm so it’s in my line of sight. I squint at my masterpiece blearily. 

“Freckles are just constellations on your skin,” I tell him, “that’s what my mom told me when I asked her why some kids had spots and I didn’t. She used to say shit like that a lot.” Marco looks down at the constellations I’ve painted into his skin and smiles.

“I like that,” he says, admiring my handiwork.

“Good, because I don’t think it’s gonna wash off.” 

“Jean!” 

“I’m kidding! It’ll come off with soap and water, yeesh. Relax.” I push him playfully in the shoulder. Marco yawns so I continue, “should we sleep? It’s like, two in the morning.”

“Mmmm,” Marco hums, but he’s leaning into my shoulder with all of his weight so I’m not sure if I’m supposed to interpret it as a sign that he got what I said or that he’s planning on falling asleep on me regardless of whether I want him to or not.

“Hey, Freckles,” I nudge him again. He blinks up lazily at me, irritated that I would dare disturb his sleeping patterns. “Look, you can use me as a pillow all you want if you tell me one thing before you crash.”

“Mmmwhat’s that?” Marco asks. _What a fucking dork_. 

“Tell me what the sign for ‘stars’ is,” I say. Marco smiles and happily obliges, lifting up his hands so his palms face outwards with all of his fingers except for his index fingers curled into loose fists. He begins moving them up and down one at a time before he drops his hands back to his lap and resumes his half-asleep position against my side. I smile at his sudden lack of energy. 

Moments later Marco drifts off, snoring slightly as he rests with his head on my shoulder. Cautiously, I lean my head on top of his. His hair tickles my cheek, but I can’t bring myself to care when it’s so soft and comfortable to lay like this. _I could easily just fall asleep like this….leaning on Marco….my arm around his shoulder…._

Woah. Woah. No. _Haven’t you ever heard of no homo, Jean? Get your shit together_.

I carefully extract myself from Marco’s weight and lay him down on the bed so that his head rests on an actual pillow and not, you know, _me_. _Thank God he sleeps like a rock_ , I think.

Once I’m fairly certain that Marco isn’t going to wake up from his sudden change in position, I crawl up to the top bunk. The ladder squeaks as I haul myself up, but I don’t think an earthquake could wake him at this point. Or a couch being chucked out the window to _Ride of the Valkyries_ , either. I lay on the bed with my hands folded across my stomach and wait for sleep to knock me the fuck out, but it seems that Mr. Sandman isn’t on my side tonight.

I roll to my side, too tired to do anything else but too awake to go to sleep. I practice the motion that Marco taught me and smile at how fitting the whole thing is. _Stars and freckles. How fucking cheesy can you get, Kirschtein?_ The brain genie asks. 

_I think you’d be surprised_ , I tell him before tugging the blanket over my head and drifting off into a peaceful dream about a smiling boy whose skin shines with starlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?


	6. Reveal Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean and Marco search for a distraction but come to realize that sometimes, it's better to face the truth....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I usually update a lot faster but I had surgery and I couldn't write with so many painkillers in my system. But hey, at least you get a super long chapter, right? It's a whopper, my friends. And, if you haven't listened to Springtime for Hitler yet, then you should maybe definitely do that now.  
> Also:  
> Some more ableism (boo) ahead  
> Some teen partying (not even)  
> Also some drinking

To put it mildly, waking up that Sunday morning is absolute hell. And for once, I don’t have Eren Jaeger to blame for it.

No, today I have only myself and my late night arts and crafts session to point a finger at. 

Opening my eyes, the first thing I notice isn’t the fact that I’m not in my own bed, or that the light streaming through the curtains is obnoxiously bright; it’s that my face feels likes it’s peeling off. For a moment, I am paralyzed by the fear that I developed a fatal skin condition over night, but I sigh in relief once I remember how I went all Michelangelo on Marco’s arm last night. I hesitantly reach one hand up and drag it across the paint I never bothered to wash off my face. It scratches off in obnoxiously large flakes, some of which catch in my morning stubble while others drift down lazily to the pillow beneath my head. _Gross_. 

It’s as I’m watching one particularly large flake of dried acrylic that I remember the boy sleeping beneath me and the way I had smeared paint across his forearm. This is going to be a nightmare.

With a resigned huff, I pull myself over the edge of the bunk and look down at the pile of blankets beneath me where my friend’s head peeks out from beneath the mound. Marco’s face is slack and I briefly consider the possibility that my friend might be dead until I notice the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest. He still lies almost exactly as I left him, with his head _almost_ on the pillow and his assortment of sheets and comforters wrapped around his ankles. One hand has managed to fling itself dramatically over his forehead, but other than that, he doesn’t seem to have moved an inch. I smile at the thought. 

Or, at least, I try to smile at the thought. I’m just starting to feel the corners of my lips creep up in that way that only Marco being Marco can make me grin when I notice exactly which arm it is that he’s slung over his face. _Shit_. 

I make my way down the ladder of the bunk as quickly and quietly as possible, landing with a hardly audible _thunk_ at the foot of Marco’s bed. The genie nags me as I reach out to take Marco’s arm in my own, not-so-silently reminding me that it’s pretty fucking creepy to examine your friend’s appendages while they sleep, but I shake him off in favor of admiring the damage I did to Marco’s skin. The constellations I painted onto his arm are still there, though large patches have rubbed off and worked their way into every crevice they can find. I notice a few in Marco’s fantastic bedhead that I’m tempted to rub out, but once again, the genie reminds me that the _no homo_ policy definitely applies in this situation. _You can’t just stroke some dude’s head, Jean_ , he says, _even if he is shedding dried paint like some people shed dandruff. It’s creepy._

I sigh. The genie’s right, of course. Grudgingly, I follow his advice and release Marco’s arm….I have to cross my hands across my chest to keep myself from reaching out again, though.

“Mar-” I start to say….until I realize that he’s deaf. You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now, but it seems I need constant reminders. Friend of the year, that’s me.

I settle on uncrossing my arms and nudging the boy below me in the shoulder. It takes several pushes and a few friendly punches to wake Marco up. He gazes up blearily at me once he comes back to the living, his brown eyes slowly adjusting to the light in the room as he tries to process who’s standing over him like a creeper. His lips smack together once recognition finally settles over his features and he smiles up at me.

‘Good morning,’ Marco signs before stretching his arms above his head, grabbing his pillow, and tugging it under his torso to snuggle affectionately with it. His eyes close in contentment while mine roll in annoyance. 

“Hey, Freckles,” I punch his arm again so he’ll open his eyes and look at me for once. As much as I enjoy watching the big dork sleep, I kind of have some paint to clean up. “You gotta get up and take a shower.” 

Marco shakes his head vigorously, snuggling his way further into the nest of blankets and the pillow he’s been cuddling. He squeezes it close to his chest like a teddy-bear and rubs his cheek along the fabric beneath his face. The little shit even smiles. I huff in irritation. Sometimes I’m convinced that waking the fucking _dead_ would be easier than waking Marco. 

Determined to see the task through, I take a few steps back from the bunk and raise my arms above my head to stretch them out. I even wiggle my fingers a few time for good measure to prepare myself for the supernatural bullshit I’m undoubtedly gonna have to pull to get Marco up for the day. Without further hesitation, I take two bounds across the room and leap headfirst into the bottom bunk and directly onto Marco’s sleeping body. His hip stabs me in the gut - which is uncomfortable to say the least - but it gets the job done, dammit. 

“ACK!” Marco yelps, sitting upright and knocking me over so that I flop gracelessly across his legs. Both of his hands reach out to grab his cuddle-buddy before promptly smacking me upside the head with the pillow. “What are you doing?!” 

“Oof, I’m-” he keeps hitting me, “hey, watch that- DAMMIT MARCO- I’m trying to get you- STOP- up!” I yell, but I’m laughing, so I doubt that I make a particularly threatening image. 

Marco falls back onto the bed dramatically and flings his arms out to the side. “Jean, it’s the weekend. Can’t we just sleep in?” _Ha. I wish._

“No can do, my friend. Your face looks like Van Gogh threw up on it.”

“What? What’s that supposed...to….mean….” Marco trails off as he brings a hand up to feel around his face, starting at his chin. I watch as his fingers slowly trace around the corners of his lips (still drawn in a smile, by the way) and nose, gently fluttering their way towards his forehead streaked with dried paint. His eyes go wide once he feels it beneath his fingertips and he runs his hands through his hair in exasperation. Marco winces at the chips of paint that he dusts off as a result. “ _Oh my God_.” 

“Sorry. You crashed before I could wash that monstrosity off your arm,” I shrug and point to the painting. Marco looks down at the constellations dotting his skin and shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to wash it off,” he says, “at least, not yet.” 

‘Why,’ I ask. It’s gotta be itchy and irritating at this point, there’s no reason to keep it on. 

‘I love it,’ Marco signs back to me, holding his arm close to his chest almost as if he’s afraid that I’ll grab it from him and wash it off regardless of whether he wants me to or not. 

“Okay, fine. But you still gotta wash your face,” I say. Marco seems to agree with my sentiment, nodding his head and shifting so we can both stand up and trek towards the bathroom. He grabs two towels on the way and chucks one at me while I’m not looking so that it hits me in the back of the head. I flip him off affectionately behind my back, closing my eyes and listening to the laughter he responds with.

The thing about Marco is….he laughs a lot. He laughs at everything he finds even remotely humorous. My scowling in the mirror as I scrub paint off my nose, the way flecks of blue fly from his hair when he shakes his head like a dog, the way I gracelessly turn the tap water off with my elbow while my hands dry, fucking anything. As long as he’s in a good mood, laughter is sure to follow. Sometimes it drives me insane - nobody has the right to be that chipper all the time! - but at the same time, it keeps me grounded. It’s something to cling to in a whirlwind of assignments and exhausting lectures and no-caffeine mornings. It’s the one thing I can always count on when work sucks and life is mediocre. Once it’s flowing freely again, I realized how much I missed hearing it, even for a few hours of sleep. 

We decide together that breakfast is the best course of action, shuffling over to the closest café still in our PJ’s (plus a few coats and mismatched gloves) and sitting down at one of the tables inside. I watch the already fallen snow swirl around like glitter in a snowglobe as Marco orders food for us. It’s probably better that he does the ordering anyway, since I look like a fucking goblin in the mornings whereas he looks as sunny as ever. 

He comes back minutes later with two muffins and two cups of coffee. I take the latter from him greedily, sneering as he places his sugary concoction down next to me while he takes a seat. How anyone could stand to dilute such a pure, godly substance with chocolate and sugar is beyond me. 

“So,” Marco begins, “what should we do today?” 

I look over at my friend, not entirely sure how to respond. On one hand, it’s the weekend and we usually spend every waking moment of it doing stupid shit or lazing around. Part of me is tempted to suggest a horror movie marathon. But on the other hand, his brother just got arrested and I don’t know _shouldn’t that concern you Marco? Shouldn’t you be with your family right now?_

“Uh. Well, I was gonna head back to my dorm. Give you some time to….talk.” I say. Is it super eloquent? No. Does it get my point across? Not really. Do I care? Absolutely not. 

‘Talk?’ Marco asks, looking thoroughly puzzled as he takes another bite of his muffin. 

“W-well your brother….” I say. Marco keeps smiling softly at me, but it looks more and more fake the longer I ramble, “shouldn’t you talk to your family?” 

Marco sighs through his nose and drops the pastry on the table in front of him. He turns to face out the window, eyes scanning the snowbanks on either side of the sidewalk out front and watching the same flurries I was watching before he came over. The smile stays on his face, but it’s not natural. It’s just stubbornly clinging to his lips like a desperate kiss that he doesn’t want to let go of just yet. 

“Mía said she’d call me again when she knew more,” he says finally, reaching for his coffee to take another sip of the diluted liquid. I wince just at the smell of it. _That is not coffee, that’s Satan’s gift to humanity_ , I think. 

‘Mía’s your….older sister?’ I ask. I know we’ve known each other for over a month now, but dammit, you try keeping track of all five of your friend’s siblings without actually knowing any of them. 

‘Yes,’ Marco says, ‘she lives with Mom and Dad.’

I pause, thinking I should probably sign back but still confused about what he’s trying to get at. 

“What do you mean, ‘she lives with Mom and Dad,’ isn’t she like, twenty-seven?” Marco sighs at the question and bites his lip as he practices the response in his head. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “she is. She’s just living with them to help with Victoria and Isa until they’re old enough to be left on their own.” 

“Oh. That’s….nice of her,” I say, watching as that damn Western movie star mask makes it’s way back over Marco’s features. It’d be nice if it didn’t make an appearance for once. 

Marco nods in agreement and picks up his cup to hide what I assume is a crack in the false face he’s putting up in front of me. I decide to humor him anyway. Which I shouldn’t do, really, but it’s hard not to give into Marco’s wishes. Even if they aren’t exactly doing any good for him.

“Okay, so….Call of Duty?” I ask. Marco smiles brightly again, though I can tell he’s slightly ticked off at my suggestion. 

“You just want to watch me accidentally kill myself again, don’t you?” He says, rolling his eyes at me. 

“Absolutely.”

Together, we stand, adjust our coats, and make our way towards my dorm. On the way out the door, I hear Marco mumbling something about sadists under his breath. 

.

..

…

Call of Duty with Marco is always a surreal experience; in part because he sucks at it, but also because his responses to his own suckiness are generally glorious to behold.

You see, I don’t think Marco’s ever played a video game before in his life. He claims to be an expert at Mario Kart, but the fact that he held the controller upside down his first time playing Smash Bros makes me extremely doubtful of his so-called “expertise”. So as you can probably imagine, watching him play Call of Duty is an absolute nightmare. He has a tendency to forget what each of the buttons does, he often shoots me - or himself, on several occasions - and I don’t think he’s ever gotten past his first mission alive. It’s fantastic.

So today, when Marco’s already successfully distracted anyway, it’s an exceptional disaster. 

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“I’m listening to the call of duty, Jean!” 

“Is the call of duty telling you to _shoot me in the face?!_ ”

“It is very strongly suggesting it, yes.” 

I’m ready to give up after about an hour of a distracted Marco firing rounds into the back of my soldier’s helmet and falling off obstacles into enemy lines. I would have given up sooner if it hadn’t been for Marco constantly fixing me with that damn kicked-puppy look every time I suggest we take a break. Luckily, I’m not the one to have to break the news to him.

“What’s crackalackin’ Jeany-boy?” Connie says as he approaches. He’s munching happily on some Fritos while a happy looking Sasha chows down on a handful of cookies behind him. “Yeah, what’s crackin’ Jeanbo?” She mimics. 

“Just kicking Marco’s ass in Call of Duty,” I tell them, pausing the game as I lean back on the couch to speak to them. Marco sighs and promptly chucks the controller as far away from him as he can. Sasha gasps once she notices the grouch sitting next to me. 

“Oh, oh!” Sasha vaults over the couch so she faces us, spraying cookie crumbs as she goes, “you’re Jean’s friend!” 

Sasha pokes Marco in the chest and holds out her hand for him to shake. He takes it hesitantly before nodding skeptically in her direction, eyes darting between me and the crazy brunette in front of him. 

“I can’t believe we finally get to meet you! Jean’s been keeping you all to himself,” Sasha pouts, crossing her arms over her chest and sticking out her tongue in my direction. I roll my eyes at her childish gimmick. 

“Yeah, that’s because I don’t want to corrupt him, Sash,” I say, placing one hand protectively on Marco’s shoulder while his eyes flick between the two of us in an attempt to decipher what’s being said. 

“I’m hurt,” Sasha gasps as she tugs Connie to her side and pretends to swoon into his unprepared embrace. Connie lets her, holding onto her waist firmly while she gets the theatrics out of her system. 

“Oh, hello,” Marco says once my bald friends steps into his line of sight, “Connie, right?”

All three of us turn to look at Marco questioningly when he manages to get Connie’s name right despite, to all of our knowledge, never having met him. Connie’s grip around Sasha’s waist relaxes a bit and she yelps at the loss of support, wheeling her arms like a windmill to straighten herself out again. 

“Uh….yeah,” Connie says, releasing Sasha fully this time. She sqwaks. “How’d you know my name, dude?” 

“I work lights for _The Glass Menagerie_ ,” Marco says, “Sorry, probably should’ve led with that.”

Connie shrugs Marco off and I look up at him expectantly, still not entirely sure how Marco would manage to catch his name if Connie isn’t even in the play. _Maybe he does props or some shit_. 

“Con’s in the play with me,” a voice suddenly whispers directly into my ear. Sasha’s breath ruffles the shorter hairs on the side of my head and I have to physically restrain myself from slapping her senseless at the sudden intrusion on my personal space. I settle on flicking her in the nose once I look back up at her for a better explanation. 

“He’s playing Tom,” she provides, like I should somehow know who the fuck that is. I nod anyway. 

Meanwhile, Connie and Marco seemed to have sorted everything out - ultimately deciding that Marco is not, indeed, a stalker - and have begun the lengthy process of telling each other how they know me. Connie’s rendition of the story is less than flattering (“I got stuck with him in the fifth grade and he hasn’t let me go since!”), but Marco’s much closer to the truth.

“I met him getting props for the play. You know, all those glass figures and stuff?” He says, “And we have English together.” I sigh when he leaves out all of the stuff in between….you know, like how I laughed at him for being deaf, stalked him to rehearsal, and forgot he couldn’t hear on multiple occasions. Just the trivial stuff. 

“Radical,” Connie says. Sasha and I roll our eyes. “Well, any friend of Jeanbo’s is a friend of ours. Welcome to the club my dude.” 

Connie holds out a fist for Marco, who bumps it back with a light chuckle. 

“Anywhoooo,” Sasha croons. Her ability to segue never ceases to amaze me. “We were gonna head over to this party on the Frat Freeway, you guys wanna come?” 

Marco and I exchange a glance, obviously both thinking back to the last time we walked down that dismal stretch of sidewalk and nearly got ourselves killed. Marco has to bite his lip to keep from giggling, but he nudges me on reassuringly nonetheless. I, however, still have my doubts. 

“Who the hell has a party at 11 o’clock in the morning on a Sunday?” I ask.

“Reiner Braun,” Connie says immediately, stepping forward to hip-bump Sasha out of the way, “he’s in the play with us. It’s just a little get together for the crew, not really much of a party. Just kinda a way to get to know each other a little better before the play debuts in a few weeks. Braun said we were welcome to bring some people along, though.” 

I look to Marco for confirmation; if he’s not going, I’m not going, either. Especially not on a day like today when I promised to stick by his side and distract him until his sister called. He shrugs and nods back at my expectant stare, standing from the couch and offering his hand down to pull me up. I notice the painting on his arm and smile at the thought that he still has no intention of washing it off, even if it is flaking off as we walk. And even if it no longer really looks like what it’s supposed to be.

We follow closely behind a very excited Sasha and a slightly less enthused Connie, who chatter with their backs turned to us the entire way. I translate for Marco once the smile starts slipping from his face, figuring that he probably doesn’t feel super included when he can’t see the conversation taking place in front of him. He smiles gratefully at my re-cap, even laughing slightly when I turn it into a running commentary about how graceless Sasha is. The four of us finally pull up in front of a frighteningly familiar building in the middle of the Frat Freeway. Marco and I exchange a knowing glance, pushing our way through the front doors behind Connie and Sasha despite the laughter wracking our bodies and our mutual inability to grip the door handles being offered to us. 

The inside of the aforementioned building is….interesting, to say the least, and definitely not what I would have expected from what I’ve seen of the outside. The walls are white, almost oppressively so, as is the furniture and the tile on the floor. I sort of feel like I’m walking towards my own death, which is not something I usually think about when entering frat houses. Sasha and Connie lead us up a matching, blindingly white staircase that zigzags up the many levels of smelly dormitories. We end up on the seventh floor - a disappointing fact, considering the couch came flying out of the third or fourth floor window. I was secretly hoping that our party hosts would have been the culprits. 

Connie knocks on a door halfway down the hall while Sasha bounces on the balls of her feet behind him. The door swings open after a few anticipatory moments, revealing a obnoxiously tall boy with dark brown hair and a sweater vest. 

“Bertl!” Connie and Sasha scream into the now open door. 

“Bertholdt?” Marco says from his position beside me.

“Marco?” The giant responds as the dynamic duo sweep past him into the apartment, which I now notice is buzzing with activity. Marco and the taller boy approach each other and shake hands awkwardly. Bertholdt (I think?) starts sweating noticeably as they exchange cordial formalities, but still looks Marco in the eyes as he speaks. _They’ve met before, I guess_. “Uh, good to see you man….what’re you doing here?” 

“Oh, um,” Marco retracts his hand from Bertholdt’s grip to rub anxiously at the back of his neck, “Connie and Sasha kinda coerced us into coming along.” 

“Huh.” Bertholdt opens the door wider so we can enter. “Well it _is_ a cast party, come on in.” 

Marco nods and continues forward, though I can tell he’s shaken by Bertholdt’s obvious discomfort at his presence. I follow hesitantly behind, nodding and briefly introducing myself to the sweaty giant in front of me before latching onto Marco’s shoulder and pulling up next to him in the center of the room. He throws me a grateful smile, but I practically miss it because I’m busy taking in the scene in front of me. And the scene in front of me is busy taking in me.

Bertholdt’s apartment is pretty large - he probably shares it with some other frat guys - and currently filled with a plethora of theater kids holding cans of soda and beer. A few I recognize from that time I completely fucked up their rehearsal. A few of them clearly remember me, too, because they scowl in my general direction, but most of them just stare at me and Marco curiously as they try to figure out who the fuck we are and what we’re doing here. Suddenly, a petite blonde figure barrels through the moderate crowd and crashes into Marco, hopping up and flinging their arms around his neck. Marco stumbles back to accommodate the body koala-ing onto him, but throws his arms around the blonde nonetheless. 

“Marco!” The figure shrieks, revealing their identity with their angelic voice. Krista doesn’t release Marco from her death grip to look at the idiot standing beside him. “Oh! You brought a friend, too!” 

“Connie and Sasha dragged us along,” I tell her since Marco probably can’t speak yet with the pale arms constricting around his esophagus. Krista nods against his chest before finally releasing us and ushering us forward to introduce us to the rest of the crowd. It turns out that I know quite a few of them; Reiner’s been in a few of my classes and the only people I’ve never seen before are Bertholdt and a short blonde girl with an intimidatingly icy stare. Even Armin makes an appearance - which is a shocker, because I still find it hard to believe he actually has a social life. 

“Welcome to the dark side,” a voice suddenly sounds near my ear. I jump at the proximity, but don’t have a chance to run before a beefy arm is tossed casually over my shoulders. I turn my head to stare the culprit down. _These fucking theater kids have no concept of personal space_.

“Reiner,” I grind out between gritted teeth. The man beside me still refuses to lower his arm from its position around my neck.

“Jean,” the blonde responds cheekily, flexing his bicep slightly and threatening to strangle me. I swear I see stars as his arm tightens around my neck and it takes an absurd amount of self control not to punch the bastard in the nose to get him to release me. 

You might be thinking, _wow, this man is going to strangle me. Jean is going to die at the pathetic age of nineteen at the hands of a man only a few inches taller than himself_. I am here to tell you that is not the case. Sure, Reiner’s hold around my neck might be suffocating and miserable, but he’s not attempting to murder me. At least, not to my knowledge. Reiner Braun just happens to be exceptionally strong for someone of his age; a fact he enjoys showing off to us little people very, very much. 

“This your shindig?” I ask once I’m finally released from his grip. _Freeeeeedddoooooom!_ the genie cheers.

“Sure is,” he smiles, “wanted to get to know my fellow cast mates a little better, ya know?” 

“No.” 

“This guy,” Reiner booms, tugging me around to face the rest of the crowd, “is such a character! I love it!” I roll my eyes at his enthusiasm. 

“Right,” I say sarcastically, heading towards where I last saw Marco. I spot him near the couch standing next to Krista, engaged in what seems to be a very intense silent conversation. Watching them talk with their hands without announcing my presence is probably rude as fuck, but I can’t bring myself to care as I try and decipher their words as they fly through complicated gestures with their beautiful hands. 

‘....speak for you?’ Krista signs. I think. 

‘Thanks, that’s nice….need to talk….them….’ Marco responds. Again, my Sign Language is pretty much limited to the one-hundred or so words Marco’s taught me, so I could be wrong. He could be announcing his distaste for whole wheat waffles or professing his love to Krista right now for all I know. Something inside me cringes at the thought and I drop my eyes to stare down at my chest where I start to feel an uncomfortable squeezy feeling. 

What the fuck? 

_You’re jealous_ , the brain genie supplies, crossing his imaginary little arms across his imaginary little chest. _You’re jealous of Marco_.

 _That’s ridiculous_ , I tell him. Why would I be jealous of my friend? The genie must have had too much to drink today. He’s just delusional. _I’m not jealous of Marco_. 

Marco and Krista suddenly seem to notice that I’m eavesdropping on their conversation and stop their frantic hand motions. Krista smiles uncomfortably at me, coughing into her fist and excusing herself from the area by gesturing towards the kitchen. Marco, on the other hand, seems less than thrilled at my sudden intrusion into his business. 

“Did you catch that?” He asks, not exactly angry but not exactly happy, either. 

“No,” I tell him honestly. Because, really, I only caught about six words. “I uh, didn’t know any of the signs you were using.” 

Marco sighs before smiling at my awkward attempt to clear the air. He comes to stand closer, grabbing a can of Coke from the cooler near his feet and offering it to me while he grabs another for himself. I gladly accept and yank the tab forward before downing half of the fizzy beverage in one massive, painful gulp. _This is punishment for eavesdropping_ , I tell myself as the carbonated bubbles tear at the lining of my mouth and throat.

“Alright party personnel,” a loud voice I immediately recognize as Reiner’s booms behind me, “if you’ve been here before you already know the rules of Bertl’s and my humble abode, but for those of you who haven’t had the privilege of visiting casa del Braun, I’ll give you the rundown. Rule number one: no drinking in the bedrooms, I don’t want any stains on my wonderfully carpeted floors. Number two: no having sex on _any_ of the furniture. That’s our job.” At this, he winks promiscuously Bertholdt and smirks at the rest of the crowd. The surrounding theater kids giggle knowingly while Bertholdt blushes profusely at Reiner’s vulgar comment. I don’t blame him, honestly. Reiner’s always lacked a filter especially when it comes to shit like this; the first time he ever talked to me he told me that my jeans made my ass look fantastic. It haunts me to this day. 

“Third and final rule,” Reiner continues, unfazed, “you gotta sing. I don’t give a flying fladoodle if your voice sounds worse than a fork in a blender. You. Must. Sing.” 

I look questioningly at Marco beside me, who seems just as confused as I am about Reiner’s strange house codes. We share a nervous side eye, both of us trying to piece together in our minds why the fuck this goliath of a man is forcing us to sing terribly inside is own home. _I knew Reiner was a little off-kilter, but I never marked him down as a fucking masochist_ , I think, watching as Marco probably comes to a similar conclusion. The man in question, obviously sensing both our confusion, comes to place a meaty hand on each of our shoulders. 

“Show-tunes, boys,” he announces and claps us both squarely on the arm. 

“‘Scuse me,” a nervous voice pipes up from behind him and Bertholdt steps forward, sliding his boyfriend aside to speak with us. “He means you’re gonna have to sing along to any of the musicals we listen to.” 

“This _is_ a party for theater kids, you know,” Krista suddenly says, signing to Marco as she goes. His face visibly pales once her hands have stopped moving and I have to remind myself for the billionth time today that he’s deaf. I pat him on the shoulder reassuringly. 

“So….what is this, karaoke?” I ask. Krista, Reiner, and the surrounding theater kids smirk. 

“Kind of,” Krista says, still signing and grinning like a lunatic. “It’s more like a high-stress hybrid of musical chairs, karaoke, and American Idol.” 

“The fuck do you mean, ‘high stress’?” I practically whimper, head swinging around to take in the barbarous looks on everybody’s face. _Oh no. Oh no no no no no_. 

“Just watch and learn, boys,” Sasha suddenly whispers in my ear; I jump at the sudden intrusion and smack her in the chin. _Really, she is uncannily good at that_. The motion doesn’t deter her in the slightest, though, and she tugs me and Marco towards the couch by the back of our shirts. Marco yelps in protest. 

The room around us suddenly spirals into absolute chaos: kids running everywhere, orders being shouted, drinks being handed - sometimes even thrown - back and forth. It’s the kind of mayhem I expect to see in the front row of a One Direction concert; not in a frat boy’s apartment. I reach mindlessly for something to hold onto in the whirlwind of mania spinning around me and somehow end up with a freckled hand beneath my own, fingers laced and clutching back with an equal amount of vigor. Something inside me sends a rush of ice through my veins and I look down to where Marco and I are connected. _This isn’t normal, you should remove your hand_. I inhale sharply through my nose, but I truthfully can’t bring myself to let go; even if the brain genie is screaming _NO HOMO_ in my head with the tenacity of a four year old having a temper tantrum. 

Marco’s hands are definitely one of my favorite things about him….please don’t make any innuendos out of that, I’m begging. Also, it’s true. His fingers are longer than mine, less boney, definitely more elegant, and a whole lot softer and warmer - like the rest of him. Whereas my hands are littered with calluses from holding a pencil and helping Hange douse fires in the forges, his are marked only by the same freckles that decorate his arms and face. The best thing about them, though? They speak more than I ever will. Sure, I’m bilingual, but as far as I’m concerned, Marco speaks a lifetime of learning’s worth of tongues. They speak Sign Language, of course, but it’s the things he’s able to say that make them so remarkable. His hands speak of empathy, of happiness, of tragedy, of countless secrets he still refuses to share, and countless truths he’s eager to tell. They tell of things I’ll never have the guts to say out loud and of emotions I wouldn’t be able to articulate even if I tried. So now, even though the brain genie’s voice is cracking from exertion, I can’t pull my hand out of his. 

Things have started slowing down considerably outside of the weird little world I’ve dragged myself into. Reiner and Bertholdt are still arguing flirtatiously over the settings on the TV (both of them, of course, insisting that they’re right), but everyone else has wrangled themselves into a loose semi-circle surrounding the bickering pair. Most sit on the ground, though a few are fortunate enough to snag a chair. Marco lets me keep clutching his hand, but coughs twice into his other fist once our hosts announce it’s time to begin the main event. I let it go begrudgingly; breathing in deeply to keep my face from reddening at the embarassment. 

_FUCKING FINALLY!_ The brain genie screams before adding in: _are you sure you don’t have a fetish for hands?_

 _Christ, NO. I don’t have a hand fetish you perv!_ I think back, trying to ignore the fact that I am mentally scolding myself and not, you know, an actual being in my brain. 

“Alright, boys and girls of every age-” 

“WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO SEE SOMETHING STRANGE?” The people surrounding us chorus back. In a surprisingly impressive four-part harmony, I might add. 

“This is how it’s gonna go down,” Reiner continues as if nothing out of the ordinary just happened. _Theater kids_ , I internally groan, rolling my eyes. “Bertholdt, my one and only, the light of my life, my darling butterfly-” 

“Gaaaay,” Someone chimes up in front of me. Connie, maybe. 

“You bet your heterosexual ass I am, Springer. Anyway, Bertl here will be managing the controls; the rest of you are playing. He only gets a free pass because he gives really fantastic blow jobs.” 

“REINER.” 

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles at his boyfriend’s bright red face, “for realsies though, he’s the only one here exempt from the no singing rule. Everyone else is fair game. I know we all know how to play, but for our two lovely and unexpected guests, here’s how it goes:

“You will be arranged into two teams. You’ll stand in two lines with the first person in each line facing the first person of the other and everyone else will just have to file in behind them. Bertl, who will be a safe distance from the disaster that’s about to take place here today, will randomly select show-tunes for the first person in line to sing. They will keep singing until they are either a: booed off the makeshift stage, b: they are veritably lifted from their spot by someone tired of hearing them sing, or c: they finish the song undisturbed. Once one of those things happens, they will run to the back of their line and the first person of the other line will start in with a new song.” 

“What happens if you don’t know the song Bertholdt picks?” An asian girl I vaguely remember seeing in English inquires from her perch on a stolen kitchen chair. I try not to stare once I notice her, but there’s something both very intimidating and alluring about the way she calmly regards the situation when I’m scared shitless about it. 

“You suffer,” Reiner responds unhelpfully. The girl fixes him with an icy glare. 

“It’s okay, Mikasa. The lyrics’ll be on screen,” Armin says and I finally notice that he’s using her long, denim clad legs as a backrest. _Heh. At least now I have an excuse to check out her legs_. The girl - _Mikasa, is that Japanese or something?_ \- resigns without a word and silently wraps a red scarf around her neck. 

“Everyone got that?” Reiner asks and is met with silence. “Excellent. COMMENCE, MY CHILDREN. COMMENCE!” 

The theater kids at my feet and sides spring up with newfound excitement, clapping and cheering as they pull each other to their feet and rearrange themselves into two lines - almost instinctually. Marco and I rise from the couch, clearly unsure of what to do. Krista swings by at some point to steal Marco from my side and yank him into line beside her, but I’m left embarrassingly alone in the middle of the room with a row of adult-sized-children on either side of me. _Goddammit. I knew trusting Connie and Sasha was a mistake._

“Jean!” Sasha calls from my left, as if reading my thoughts. I squint suspiciously at her. “Come on! Our side is one short!” 

“Yeah, um, about that,” I say, “I don’t sing. I’m not even into theater.” 

“Neither is Mikasa,” Armin says from my right, gesturing to the girl at his side, “she’s just here because I asked her to be.” 

“Yeah, but-” 

“Nope. Sorry.” A pair of muscular arms suddenly materialize around my waist, lifting me from the ground like I’m nothing more than a sack of turnips and placing me into line beside Sasha. I glare at Bertholdt once he releases me. He shrugs nervously before making his way back to the couch with a slight blush on his face. He tentatively picks up the discarded remote and lifts it high above his head, forcing all of our attention onto where he stands proudly in front of us. 

“Alright, the team to start us off will be - drumroll please,” a loud, cacophony of people slapping their thighs, “Krista’s team.” 

The line across the TV from me cheers wildly, slapping the petite blonde at the front of the line on the back as she steps forward and waits for Bertholdt to choose something on the karaoke program they’re using. Like magic, a hairbrush is pulled from the back pocket of her jeans, which she immediately brings to her lips like a microphone. The row of people behind her clap encouragingly at the image she makes and I notice Marco at the very back of the line trying his best to look sincere in his clapping. It’s half-assed at best, but I can’t exactly blame him. I’m about as thrilled about this as I am about doing laundry. Which, if the current state of my closet is anything to go by, is not thrilled at all.

Bertholdt pushes a few buttons on the remote and suddenly the TV chimes out a few chords that I only register as the beginning of that stupid song from that stupid movie about the orphan. _Amelia? Anna? Annie? Annie_. 

“ _The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom that tomorrow, there’ll be suuun_ ,” Krista begins. A tall girl, the second in my line, lets out a loud whistle at Krista’s heavenly voice while her own line claps and cheers through the entirety of the song. No one dares try and stop the blonde from singing (especially with the frigid look the tall brunette in my line is throwing at anyone not paying close enough attention), and she finishes with a flourish that is met with ebullient whistling and applause. 

A new song begins blasting from the TV, cutting off the celebration and forcing Krista to scuttle to the back of the line. She tosses the hairbrush to Reiner before she goes while the flashy trombone introduction blasts through the speakers.

“THAT’S MY SHIT, BERTIE!” Reiner cries, strutting forward with the hairbrush in his hands and waiting for the words to start scrolling across the screen. I flinch along with everyone else once once he opens his mouth to belt out the first verse. 

“ _Coome on babe, why don’t we paint the tooown_ ,” he wiggles his hips in a very suggestive motion. I cover my eyes and Sasha’s as well as he continues with what is quickly becoming a pole dance without the actual pole. “ _And alll that jaazzz_ ,” Reiner thrusts his hips to the side, then rolls them forward while running his hands down his broad chest and thighs. I try not to flinch at the sight. 

In fact, most of us are struggling to keep our breakfasts down, from the looks of it. The only person who looks truly pleased with Reiner’s display is his boyfriend, who waves the remote around lazily to the music. Eventually, though, the popular vote wins out and Reiner is forced from the spotlight, only for Connie to replace him with an equally horrendous version of _Do You Hear the People Sing?_ from _Les Misérables_. To be fair, he attacks it ardently, but he’s hardly through the first verse before he gets booed off the stage by my line. 

Everything after that flashes by in a hectically fast blur of motion and scratchy vocal chords. Armin gives a very wimpy rendition of _Greased Lightning_ , while the blonde with terrifying eyes I noticed earlier presents us all with a very sexual rendition of _If I Were a Rich Man_. Before I know it Mikasa is pulled off the stage in a cloud of elbows and feet and the hairbrush is shoved into my hand. 

_I’ve lived a good life_ , I think, looking down at the plastic handle in my palm. I momentarily imagine that it’s Marco’s hand instead, but I shake the image off and chalk it up to stress hallucination. _I’ve lived a pretty good life. Give all my records to Marco, don’t let Connie and Sasha touch my shit, tell my mom I love her, and tell my dog he was adopted._

_Shut the fuck up, drama king_ , the brain genie snaps. _The song’s starting_.

Shit. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. I can’t sing….I don’t even know any musicals. Sasha shoves me playfully in the back until I’m standing center stage and I feel my legs wobble a little at the sudden attention. Somewhere, in the darkest corners and crannies of my mind, I recognize the series of notes and chords coming out of the speakers, but I can’t focus enough to give it a name when the brain genie is sprinting frantically back and forth in my head trying to keep everything under control. 

“Jean!” Sasha shouts into my ear suddenly and it’s like the world is changing from grayscale to HD. “You gotta sing!” 

I let out a noise that sounds like “hnunngh,” but roughly translates to “fuck that.” She doesn’t let up and spins me around to face the TV where the words to whatever I’m supposed to sing are rolling by. It’s only when I notice a very peculiar line about Deutchland being gay that I put the pieces together. 

“Holy shit! Marco, it’s _The Producers!_ ” I yell, waving at the confused man to my right. “It’s _Springtime for Hitler!_ ” 

Without further ado, I begin to sing. Badly, but passionately, dammit. I even do the stupid dance from the movie because it doesn’t feel right to sing along without also doing the fucking can-can and pretending to march in formation. The people surrounding me laugh, letting me make a fool of myself until the last chorus when Mikasa and Armin get tired of my warbling and shoo me to the back of my line. In all the chaos, I forget to pass off the hairbrush to Marco, leaving him floundering in front of the television as the next song gets queued in. A piano rings out from the machine, an obnoxiously familiar tune that I’m pretty sure everyone in the English speaking world knows.

“Uh-” Marco starts, looking down at the TV screen, then back to Bertholdt, then finally landing on me. “You guys all know I’m deaf, right?” 

“You got this, Marco!” Reiner hollers in front of me. His claim is echoed with a very passionate chorus of _yeah_ ’s and _c’mon, Marco!_ ’s but I know there’s no way he’s catching it all with so many people speaking at once. He turns to Krista, looking for a translation, but his plea for help is merely answered with a thumbs up and a smile. 

“Guys, I don’t know if - I mean I can’t -” he stammers. 

“It’s okay! We don’t care if you’re awful!” Sasha yells unhelpfully. 

“I-I really-” 

“It’s the rules, homie!” 

“I know but-” 

“Just sing, Marco!” 

“I can’t-”

“Shut up and sing!”

“Just liste-”

“SING, BRO!” 

“ _FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND, SIX HUNDRED MINUTES_ ,” he practically yells, clearly upset with the situation “uh, crap _how do you measure a year in the life? _”__

Everything around Marco seems to stop. Connie and Sasha immediately shut their mouths. Reiner drops his arms from where they’d been waving around his head. Armin, Mikasa, Krista and Bertholdt all stop breathing entirely. 

“ _How about loooooove?_ ” Marco continues, completely oblivious to the sudden silence around him, focusing instead on the words scrolling by. I faintly recognize that Sasha is excitedly gripping my arm, but I’m so caught up in the whole debacle I can’t bring myself to give a shit about the unwanted contact. 

You know how sometimes you’re like, _hon hon, I bet I know that’s going to feel like_ , even if you’ve never felt it before? Like when you get your blood drawn for the first time, you think you know what it’ll feel like because you’ve suffered through a billion shots since you were a kid?

But sometimes, things really don’t feel like what you think they should feel like. Or sound like you think they should sound. 

Marco’s voice does not sound like what I think it should sound like.

You’d think, that because Marco’s deaf, he’d sing with no concept of pitch. 

You’d think, that because he’s deaf, he wouldn’t know the tune. 

You’d think, _this can’t really be_ Marco, _can it?_

You’d think that, and you’d be dead. Fucking. Wrong. 

Marco sings shyly, placing both of his hands over the speakers of the television so he can feel the beat. He’s still a bit off, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he’s about one beat behind where he should be, or that he’s flat on a note or two. The only thing that matters is the way his voice mesmerizes the whole lot of us, forcing a shocked silence upon our ragtag group of friends and acquaintances. I close my eyes and let myself get lost in it - his voice, I mean. Not the silence. It carries around me, warmer and more comforting than any hug I’ve ever given or received. I can almost imagine his voice spreading out like a ray of sunshine; trickling out from his throat into the pristine apartment to swirl and dance around the group of spectators he’s gathered. 

“ _Measure your life, measure your life in looooove_ ,” Marco finishes, immediately yanking his hands off the speakers and turning to face the room at large. “Happy now?” He growls. There’s a moment of silence before the crowd collectively turns into a cheering, flailing mess. 

“Marco, oh my gosh!” Krista screams, elbowing her way to the front to fling her arms around him once again. She continues her praises in sign language, somehow communicating with him despite the fact that her arms are wrapped around his torso. 

“Thanks,” he grumbles, gently extracting himself from the tiny blonde’s choke hold, “I think I should get going now.” 

“What, no! You can’t go!” The room collectively gasps, but Marco looks away so he won’t have to read into their expressions. He briskly brushes past the line of his teammates, grabbing his coat and reaching for the handle of the front door as fast as he possibly can. He pauses once he’s got it halfway open, requests to stay falling on (literally) deaf ears. 

‘Coming?’ He signs to me. Or, at least I think it’s to me. Only Krista and I know Sign Language, so I have a fifty-fifty chance of being right either way. 

“Uh….” I look around to the group gathered around me, all in various states of distress. The urge to stay behind is strong; despite the craziness, it’s been kind of fun to just…. _hang out_ with a group of people for once. But as distressed and exciting as everyone around me is, no one looks more distressed than Marco. ‘Yeah, let’s go.’ 

Marco nods curtly, holding the door open for me as I rustle around the room looking for my coat. I find it buried under a pile of outerwear near the front door, grab it, and rush out the threshold with Marco at my heels. We make our way down the overly pristine staircase and to the front entrance before I feel a hand gripping at my jacket and abruptly yanking me to the side of the building, just outside the door. 

“The hell, man? What’s gotten into you?” I say, once Marco finally relinquishes the hold he has on the fabric of my hoodie. He takes a step back to brush his palms off on the denim of his jeans before looking back up to me. 

“Jean….I’m really sorry,” he starts, fiddling with a loose string on the sleeve of his jacket and kicking his feet back and forth over the barely-there layer of snow beneath his boot. “I just - I had to get out. Sorry if I ruined your afternoon or anything.” 

“Had to get out? Why? You were fucking phenomenal! I didn’t even know you could sing!” I gently cup his chin in my palm so he has no choice but to watch me as I shower him with praises. His eyes stayed fixed on my mouth the entire time, but none of it gets through to him. Or at least, none of it seems to. 

“I sung a lot. In Jinae,” Marco says simply, his gaze still searing into my lips as I speak. 

“And you’re great at it, man!” I tell him as I tug on his chin a little harder and force him to look into my eyes instead. “Why are you so upset?” 

Marco’s gaze finally locks onto mine, his warm brown eyes turning colder and darker as he contemplates my question. I watch, practically captivated, as a few loose strands of his hair flutter across his forehead. _It looks soft_ , I think. _Do you think it’ll be soft if I run my hands through it?_ After a few moments of wondering if he’ll ever speak to me again, Marco opens his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling his face away from my cupped hands and taking a gratuitous step backwards. “That was just….you remember the first day of English when I told you I don’t like speaking when I can’t hear myself?” I nod.

“Well singing is like that but a hundred times worse,” Marco tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and suddenly it all falls into place for me. _Dammit Jean, how the fuck could you forget? Are you this kid’s friend or not?_ The genie yells, drawing out memories from the recesses of my mind like a secretary pulling papers out a filing cabinet. Millions of images flash by as he yanks more and more images out faster and faster: Marco smiling when I signed instead of spoke, Marco telling me how he hates speaking out loud, Marco watching the Producers with a sad smile on his face, Marco, Marco, Marco. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” I whisper, “fuck, Marco, I’m so sorry I didn’t think a-and I had no idea they were gonna make us sing we should’ve just stayed at the dorm I’m so fucking _stupid_ -” 

‘Hey, Jean. Look at me.’ Marco signs, pushing me in the chest until my back collides with the ivy covered brick behind me. I wince as a particularly thorny vine pokes me in the hip, but ignore it for Marco’s sake. 

‘Sorry. Talking fast,’ I say as I shift my weight away from the thorns. It pushes me closer to Marco, but I hardly care. Especially when he smells so nice. Like laundry detergent and chamomile or some shit. I can hear you judging me for noticing crap like this, but I could do without the judgement, okay? 

Marco gently presses his forefinger to my lips in attempt to silence me; even though I was speaking with my hands. 

‘It’s okay. I wanted to come,’ He says once he’s removed his hand from my mouth. I find myself missing the warmth of his finger and subtly try to shift closer to him so I can share more of his body heat. _Mmmm, much better_. 

_You’re a fucking creep_ , says the genie. 

_You’re a fucking prick_ , says the rest of me. 

‘It’s okay,’ he says again before switching back into non-silent communication, “Really, Jean. I wanted to go. I just….I wouldn’t have gone if I’d known who was going to be there, I guess.” 

“Why? Krista was there,” I point out, letting myself fall back and rest my weight on the bricks behind me. The rough surface scratches and tugs at the fabric of my hoodie, but there’s something almost grounding about the feeling of being supported and held onto. Even if it is by a fucking wall. 

Marco pauses to think, nibbling on his knuckle while he comes up with a response. “It wasn’t Krista that I was worried about,” he finally settles on. 

“Who then, Reiner? Bertholdt?” I ask. 

“Yeah….I suppose so.” Marco takes another hesitant step away from me and I get the feeling that he’s about to bolt. 

Marco does this a lot, I’ve noticed. Bolt, I mean. I think it’s all part of his stupid Western movie star persona; or maybe it’s just one-hundred percent Marco. The gunslingers don’t usually run away from awkward conversations in those movies, you know. They usually shoot somebody in the eye socket, steal their gold, and ride off into the sunset on their horse. And Marco….well, Marco sometimes skips the badassery and settles on riding into the sunset first. 

I jump forward - panicked about him running away - and grab his wrist. He doesn’t protest. 

‘Why?’ I say with my right hand while my left maintains the solid grip I have around Marco’s arm. 

“I just - I just don’t exactly get a-along with them, okay, Jean?” He says slowly under his breath. It’s quiet enough, but I read the message loud and clear. 

“Are they bugging you? I’ll kick their asses if they’re bugging you, you know. I’ll shove my foot so far up their asses, they’ll be tasting the rubber of my shoe inside their mouth for weeks.” 

‘No, no, _what the hell_ , Jean?’ He signs solemnly. I notice a smile playing at the corners of his lips, though. “They aren’t bugging me.” 

“Then what, Marco?!” I yell, shoving his hand away from me. The action startles him, if the terrified look in his eyes is anything to go by, but I’m tired of this side of Marco. I’m fucking tired of not getting answers and tired of him not letting me help him. I’m tired of this whole charming movie-star persona, and most of all, I’m tired of Marco not trusting me. 

“Jean, I-” he stumbles away. 

“NO, Marco. God fucking dammit, just _tell me_.” I reach out and push him further away. The brain genie screams at me to stop, reminding me how explosive I can be when I get angry, but like hell am I listening to my own conscience when the adrenaline scorching through my veins is yelling louder than he ever could. 

“They’re not bugging me!” Marco protests. 

“Bullshit,” I seeth. “ _Tell me!_ ”

“ _They just don’t want me in the theater department, okay?!_ ” Marco yells, pushing me in the chest much as I did to him a few moments ago. My back slams into the wall again, my shoulder blades screaming in protest as they connect harshly with the brick. “ _They don’t want me!_ ” I wince. “Nobody fucking wants me,” he adds more quietly. 

The air between us goes still with the weight of Marco’s words; but even though I can feel the weight, it doesn’t mean I know why it’s there. 

I take a sharp breath in through my nose, ‘What do you mean?’ 

“T-they treat me like a liability,” he stutters, his voice still low and breathy as he comes down from his outburst. “Bertholdt especially. H-he’s head of lighting, y’know? And sometimes….sometimes I miss the cues. With the spotlights, I mean. I-I can’t always read their lips so I mess it up and - and they’re so tired of me screwing it up for everyone.” 

“That’s hardly your fault,” I say. Marco nods. 

“I-I know. But that hasn’t exactly stopped anyone from telling me to quit while I’m ahead and choose a new major.” 

“That’s fucked up,” I tell him and grab his wrist to draw him closer, “They can’t treat you like that, Marco.”

“I know that….really, I do. I know that being deaf doesn’t define or limit me, I know that everyone on that stage makes mistakes from time to time, I know, I know, I know.” He chokes out, close to tears. I pull him into a hug so I won’t have to see the first droplets fall. 

“Shhh,” I tell him, more out of habit than anything else. His shoulders tremble in my grip, but he hasn’t started crying. He’s remarkably good at keeping the water works in, much to my delight. I hate seeing people cry. “Shhh, Marco, shhh,” I say again, though he can’t possibly hear me breathing softly into his ear. I decide instead to trace it onto his back, using one of my fingers to draw a large ‘S’ between his shoulder blades before moving on to a couple of ‘H’s in the same location. It’s cheesy and stupid, and all too cliche, but it calms him down. Before I know it, the freckled figure in my arms is completely still, his arms wrapped around my waist as we hold onto each other in front of the frat house. 

‘Let’s go back to the dorm,’ I say, pushing the sombre boy away from me so I can speak to him. ‘We could both use some cheering up.’ Marco smiles softly and nods his head, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to gesture in the direction of the dorms. I link my arm carefully with his, and we pick our way down the sidewalk with our hands in our pockets and the snow catching in our hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you were hoping to find out about Marco's brother, you're just gonna have to wait till next time :/  
> Also theater kids are such a joy to write my goodness I love them <3


	7. I Say Go, Go, Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like one mention of cancer idk be careful reading always.  
> ALSO: I've started this other fic called [Piece by Piece](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7959301/chapters/18203407) that's very very different from TSAS but I think pretty interesting in it's own right. You should check it out maybe.

Garrison House proves to be only marginally more relaxing than the party. Marco and I picked our way up three flights of stairs to get to my dorm….only to find it occupied by Jaeger and a collection of his pre-med textbooks scattered along the floor. I recoiled in disgust at the sight and pulled on Marco’s arm until he had no choice but to follow me back down the freezing staircase and into the common room below.  


The common room was a no go as well; filled to capacity with students who had procrastinated on weekend assignments and were now scrambling to get them done in time for the coming week. At some point I thought, _fuck it_ , and almost tried to grab a seat in the mayhem, but changed my mind when I noticed the OUT OF ORDER sign dangling off the coffee machine. _What’s the point in having one if it’s not going to work?_ I grumbled internally at the loss of that sweet ambrosia. Marco rolled his eyes when he saw me glaring at the machine, gently picking up my hand and leading me towards the front door of the dorm building.  


‘My room?’ he asked. My mind jumped to all sorts of perverted places at the innocent question, even though I knew exactly what he meant. _Taking me back to your room after a date, huh, Marco? Bet you’re really good with your hands_ ….  


_WOAH_ , the brain genie interjected, shutting down the swirling vortex of probably inappropriate thoughts rampaging through his living quarters. _Keep it PG-13, asshat._  


I groaned at the realization of what I had just done and dug the heel of my free hand into my eye socket. The other remained locked in Marco’s grip. Marco’s really _hesitant_ grip.  


‘Okay?’ He asked, his fingers squeezing minutely around my own. Right. Right. Stay focused, stay in the moment, Kirschtein.  


‘Yeah. Your room it is,’ I said, though I had to let go of his hand to do so. Marco nodded and pushed open the door with his hip, clearly still concerned with my deteriorating sanity. I groaned again, glad that this time his back was to me so he wouldn’t notice it.  


_The fuck is wrong with me?_ I thought to myself, stuffing my hands back in my pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to reach out for Marco again. _Where are these thoughts coming from?_ I groaned a third time - this time in embarrassment. What kind of idiot thinks about that kind of shit when his friend is right in front of him? The Jean Kirschtein kind of idiot, clearly.  


We came to the side door of Marco’s dorm within minutes, though I honestly can’t remember any of the walk over. Well, except for imagining Marco without a shirt when we passed a crazed freshmen jogging in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. _That_ I remember. Marco swiped his student ID to get us inside and we both sighed audibly at how warm it was in the hallway compared to the hell we had just walked through.  


“God bless modern heating systems,” Marco says as we walk down the hall to his room. Not gonna lie, it took some time getting used to, Marco’s room being on the first floor at Maria. The nice thing about it is that I don’t have to climb Everest to bang on his door when I forget my homework. The bad thing is that I always start climbing the stairs anyway as a force of habit and then have to sprint back down to level one to get to him on time.  


The reason Marco lives on the first floor is not one that I particularly enjoy. See, the first floor is always buzzing with activity. Yelling from the common room, students running back and forth between the stairs and the printers, and Freshmen crying to their counselors in the room adjacent to Marco’s own. But you know who can’t hear any of that? Marco. Marco can’t hear any of that. So while he lives on in blissful silence, I have to cover my ears with my hands in the hopes that I escape Maria with some shred of sanity and my hearing intact.  


‘Games?’ Marco asks, completely oblivious to my suffering and pointing at the stack of cards and boxes on top of his dresser. I nod my affirmative in his direction. He smiles and stands on his toes to reach the armada of games above his head, his palm slapping around the wood until he finds something that seems to satisfy him. Marco tosses a stack of cheap playing cards in my direction and I catch them on pure instinct, but only barely. The corners are worn, the hokey pictures of fish holding up diamonds and spades are wrinkled, and all of them are held together with an ancient rubber band. I grimace at them.  


“What? They’re just well loved!” Marco defends when he sees how I’m glaring at the Dollar Store quality goods in my hands, ripping them from my grasp and plopping on his ass in the middle of the room.  


“Well loved, or just abused?” I say while taking a seat across from him. It’s an arrangement that’s all too familiar to the two of us; Marco reclining on the post of his bed while I lean back on the wall, our feet tangled together in the middle. Exactly as we were last night. I smile, even though it’s probably pretty stupid to feel nostalgic about seating arrangements.  


“Shut up,” Marco says. He flips the cards back and forth between his fingers, shuffling them in his signature bullshit way. “So what should we play?” _Does he even know how to shuffle cards? Who the fuck cuts a deck like that? What a dork. Bet the only game he knows is Go-Fish._  


“Jean?” he nudges me in the leg to stop me from staring at the way his hands move so gracefully around the cards in his palms. I look back up at his face once he stops shuffling. “Hah?” I grumble, still slightly distracted by the way Marco’s thumb caresses the corner of an ace of spades.  


“ _What should we play, Spaceman?_ ” Marco asks a second time. Right. Card games. _Get your act together, Kirschtein_ , the genie says.  


“Uhh….What do you know?” I say, rubbing the back of my neck; a habit i’m pretty sure I picked up from Marco, “and don’t say card houses. You already kicked my ass at that.”  


Marco laughs, the sound bouncing around the room and instantly replacing the awkwardness I’d felt rolling off him since we left the party with joy. I’d probably join in, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m still bitter about his superior card house construction skills.  


“Poker?” He suggests once his laughter trails off. I shrug at the idea.  


“Do you have something to bet with?” I raise my eyebrows, highly doubtful that Marco would keep a stash of poker chips in his room. I bet he doesn’t even have any candy like a normal college student. Fucking nerd.  


“Er, clothing?” Marco says and I swear to whoever’s up there that I black out for a second. At the very least, I choke on my own spit until I’m reduced to a sputtering mess on the floor with drool dripping down my chin. I bet I look like the kind of person you’d _really_ want to play strip poker with.  


_This is what you get for imagining him without a shirt on earlier_ , the brain genie says as he watches me cough my lungs out from the relative safety of my cranium.  


“Let’s save that for another day, cowboy,” I respond once my breathing evens out, looking up to see Marco smiling smugly down at the helpless child asphyxiating on the floor.  


“Gin?” He says after sighing dramatically, as if denying him the chance to play strip poker with my scrawny ass was the greatest injustice he’s ever witnessed.  


“You know how to play gin rummy?” I say. Marco playing a game typically reserved for gambling doesn’t exactly fit with the image I have of him in my mind. Marco, the big brother, teaching his four younger siblings how to gamble. Marco sitting at a round table with a handful of thugs and a cigar dangling from his lips. It matches the image of the Western movie star he puts up sometimes, but it definitely doesn’t match the aspect of his personality that’s intrinsically _Marco_.  


“What, think I’m too innocent to play gin?” He smirks. _Now_ I can see him playing gin rummy.  


“You cried at the end of _Lord of the Rings_ of course I think you’re too innocent to know how to gamble.”  


“Okay ONE,” Marco says, dealing the cards out anyway, “gin isn’t gambling. TWO,” he plops an eleventh card down on my pile, “the Grey Havens are a metaphor for death okay? It’s sad. You’d know that if you read the books.” I pick up the cards in front of me with a sarcastic eyeroll. Only Marco would justify his wimpiness with the power of metaphor.  


“I read the first one,” I discard a six on the ground between our tangled limbs. Marco glances over at it thoughtfully but picks a card out of the stack beside it instead.  


“Did not,” he says, throwing down an ace. I pick it up to match it with the two in my hand and spread them on my leg with a haughty smile. “Did too,” I taunt, wiggling the triplet of aces in front of me.  


“Prove it,” Marco laughs at my childish display and reaches back into the stack for another card, giggling wildly when he finds a card to complete his run. “Ha!”  


“How the fuck do I prove it?” I toss aside another card.  


“Name everyone in the Fellowship,” he says, picking up my discard and placing it in the middle of his hand. His eyebrows draw together in concentration and he bites his lip as he considers which card to part with.  


“Uh….hobbits one through five, the short one that isn’t a hobbit, Orlando Bloom, Gandalf, dead guy, and the badass one,” I respond, scanning my hand before ultimately deciding to pick up the three Marco abandoned and discard a queen of my own. Marco rolls his eyes.  


“At least you tried,” he grumbles, “and by the way, there are only four hobbits in the Fellowship, you uncultured heathen.”  


“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” I tell him begrudgingly when he picks up my queen and matches it with the other two he’s been holding onto. He doesn’t respond, so I let the game continue on in relative silence. Relative because Marco keeps laughing when he matches another set of cards and because the Freshmen running around outside are never quiet.  


I try to imagine what it would be like, if my hearing was limited to the extent that Marco’s is. If everything I did was permeated by this uncomfortable level of silence and eeriness. If I couldn’t listen to music. If i couldn’t hear people’s voices. I shiver at the thought. Just this relative quiet is giving me the creeps; the silence so heavy I can practically feel it’s weight on my skin, sliding over the hair on my arms and resting around my shoulders like a bulky winter coat. I hate it. I have to break it. I hate the way this feels. It’s suffocating. _OutoutoutoutoutoutoutOUT_ the genie screams. _How can Marco stand this?_  


A sudden tap on my knee breaks me from my internal panic and I look up to find Marco staring at me, concern etched deep into his warm features.  


‘Okay?’ He signs, forehead creasing until the freckles there all but disappear.  


‘Yeah,’ I say back and rub at the spot on my knee where he had touched me to get my attention, swearing that I can still feel the warmth of his fingers through my jeans even though his hand is back at his side. ‘Can I….play music?’ I ask nervously, pathetically.  


Marco cocks his head to the side and squints suspiciously at the way I lower my chin to my chest in embarrassment. I wonder briefly if he’s figured out why I’m so hesitant to ask the question, why I’m so embarrassed to need something he lives without all the fucking time.  


‘Sure,’ he says after a while, gesturing for me to pull out my phone and play something. I sigh in relief the second the opening chords of some ancient Beatles song begins straining through the tiny speakers of the machine, hardly noticing when Marco places his cards at his side to watch me slump against the wall and close my eyes.  


“Are you sure you’re okay?” Marco asks, the gentle tones of his voice perfectly complementing the music flowing from the phone in my lap.  


“Yeah. I-I guess I just don’t really like the silence,” I say automatically and without thinking. My eyes fly open when I realize what I’ve just told my friend. What I’ve just told my _deaf_ friend. “ _Shit_ , Marco, I’m-”  


“It’s okay,” he chuckles before tilting his head to the side thoughtfully and adding in, “I don’t like the silence either.”  


“Yeah, but-”  


“ _Jean_ ,” Marco cuts me off, his tone of voice telling me he means business, even if he hasn’t stopped smiling in my direction. “Don’t apologize, please? You didn’t hurt my feelings. I’m fine. Please,” he stops to shake my leg violently, “ _please_ don’t apologize.”  


“....Okay,” I say after a while, still feeling the need to beg for forgiveness on my knees.  


_It’s pointless to apologize for being an insensitive prick, that’s just what you are_ , my brain genie says. Part of me wants to argue with him, to tell him I’m more than just an asshole and that I’m allowed to make mistakes every once in awhile, but I can’t. The genie’s voice is just too loud.  


“So,” Marco finally says once we resume our game of gin, the Beatles still blasting from my phone, “why do you hate it?”  


‘Excuse me?’ I ask him when he looks back at me to signal that it’s my turn to draw a card. I draw a ten and immediately discard it.  


“Why don’t you like it being quiet?” he asks, avoiding my ten like the plague and picking up another card from the stack instead.  


“Oh,” I say. How do I explain? It’s like trying to explain why I like to sleep with two pillows instead of one, or why I like to tie my right shoe before my left. There’s no real reason for it, it’s just the way I am.  


_Liar, liar, pants on fire_ ….the genie chants menacingly. I really wish he would just shut it for once.  


“I dunno….it just feels so unnatural to me. My house….” am I really telling him this shit? Am I really going to bore this kid to tears with my life story? “My house used to be really loud, like, _all the time_. I mean, we’ve got this huge house with three stories in the middle of Trost but when we bought it there were only three of us so we had to make it seem more homey somehow.” I stop to make sure Marco isn’t begging me with Sign Language to spare him from the mediocrity. He nods encouragingly instead.  


“My parents wanted to have more kids, I think. Like a whole hoard of children. But Mom got ovarian cancer and….well you can kind of imagine how fast that dream flew out the window. She’s fine now, by the way,” I add in hastily when Marco’s eyes widen even more in concern, “she’s clear now, she just can’t have kids.” He smiles in relief and I smile back before picking up the story where I left off.  


“Anyway, my dad hated the idea that we had this big old house that we couldn’t even adequately fill, no matter how hard we tried. So he played music. All the time. Probably from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to sleep, if I’m being honest,” I chuckle. Marco giggles along with me, pulling his long legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Both our cards are discarded on the floor between us, forgotten in the sentimentality of the moment.  


“So you get your taste in music from him?” Marco asks once he decides that I’m done soliloquizing for now. I scratch at the back of my neck.  


“S-something like that….” I think back to the ancient record player sitting perfectly undisturbed in my dorm right now, surrounded by all the records I could carry out of the house when I packed up Freshman year.  


“Do they still live in that house?”  


“Hmm?”  


“Your mom and dad,” Marco says, “do they still live in that house?”  


I blanche at the question. Mom still does, of course. Even I spend time there sometimes when she needs me to fix something for her. We both live there during the holidays, but….  


“My mom does,” I tell him, praying he won’t press the issue any further. And to Marco’s credit, he doesn’t. I chalk it up to his phenomenal ability to read body language; he must sense the DO NOT ASK waves radiating out from my body.  


“Oh. That’s nice. My parents still live in the same house, too,” he says, turning his head wistfully to stare at the pictures cluttered above his desk. I glance up at them, too, trying to make out the majority. A few I’ve figured out to be his siblings, not like it’s particularly hard to tell. They all share the same doe brown eyes and dark complexion dotted with freckles, though the hair on each of them is different. Some have black hair, others just brown. Marco’s lies somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, but it’s by far the most attractive. Not too dark, not too light. Just the perfect shade of chocolate brown to match his eyes.  


‘In Jinae?’ I ask once he’s turned back around to face me. He nods happily in my direction, though I’m not sure if it’s because I said it right or because I remembered the name of his hometown for once. Probably the latter.  


‘Want to see?’ Marco asks hesitantly, blushing once the question is voiced through his hands. I blush too, stunned that Marco’s willing to open up about something for once. I feel like I may just stop breathing, but the brain genie takes control and forces me to squeak out a quiet ‘yes’ instead.  


Marco stands and moves to the wall of photographs behind him, carefully scanning for the right polaroids. He picks a few out and gently prys them from their positions on the wall to clutch them against his chest. He looks down at the assortment in his hands, nods once, and sits down next to me to show me his treasure.  


‘My parents,’ he says, handing me a photo from the bottom of the stack. I stare down at it - though it’s obviously old and weathered - and try to make out the two people standing in it. One, an exceptionally tall man with light brown hair and fair skin, stands with his arms around the neck of a much smaller woman. He has to bend down considerably to reach her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the smile she gives gives me the impression that she loves it. I squint to get a better look and yup, there they are. Those unmistakable brown eyes that I see pretty much every day. Even the color of her skin matches Marco’s, both of them darker than the man in the picture.  


‘Mía,’ Marco interrupts my train of thought by thrusting another photo into my hands. A loud bark of laughter slips free once I see what it holds.  


“And little Marco,” I laugh and pull the picture closer to me to get a better look. The photo in question depicts a very young looking Marco with his sister, standing on a faded yellow couch with hairbrushes help to their lips like they’re singing into microphones. The sunlight streaming through the blinds behind them makes it hard to make it out, but both are definitely smiling at the performance they’re giving. I laugh a second time when I notice Marco’s dinosaur pyjamas.  


“That’s the day I got my hearing aids,” Marco says quietly, smiling fondly at the polaroid in my hand. I glance back at the freckled face next to my own before searching the photograph, taking my time to reexamine it. And sure enough, there they are. Two thin plastic tubes poking out from behind Marco’s infantile little ears, almost impossible to see with the glare of the sun.  


“What happened to them?” I whisper back, knowing that it won’t matter if I’m quiet, just this once.  


“We couldn’t afford them after awhile,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders and reaching out for the picture in my hands before placing it silently on the floor between us. “I had them for a couple of years, though.”  


“That….” I try to come up with an adjective to describe how I feel about that. Couldn’t afford them? That’s just bullshit. They can’t be that expensive, right? “That sucks,” I settle on. Smooth.  


“It’s okay. I don’t really need them,” Marco stands to put the pictures back on the wall. I stare disbelievingly at his back. Need them? I guess not. Marco gets by better than most people without his hearing. Shit, he gets by better than I do ninety percent of the time. But _want them?_ I can tell that’s a completely different story.  


Marco takes his seat across from me again and we resume our fourth or fifth game of gin. I’ve lost track of how many it’s been, though I’m acutely aware of the fact that I’m losing this round.  


“So….you could sing with those things?” I ask once the silence becomes a little too nauseating. The Beatles are still playing on my phone, but the awkwardness of Marco’s half-truth is still suspended dangerously over our heads.  


‘Yeah,’ he picks up another card from the deck and smiles when it matches another pair in his hands. Jacks this time. “I mean….once I heard music, I was totally hooked. I begged my parents to let me join the choir at church and we’d buy the DVD copies of musicals when we went to the video store. Guess it just came naturally to me once I could actually experience it the right way.”  


“Hmm,” I hum, beginning to pick up another card when I’m startled by a rapid series of knocks on the door. I turn to the entrance, unsure if Marco’s aware that someone wants in.  


‘Someone at the door?’ he asks when he notices me staring me at the clunky metal handle and not at the winning hand he’s just deposited on the floor by my feet. I nod and make a knocking gesture with my hand when the person bangs on the door again. Marco stands carefully and makes to open the door, glancing out the peephole and muttering a low “what the heck?” under his breath before actually opening it.  


“Krista?” Marco says once the door is pulled back enough to reveal the petite blonde standing at the threshold. She worries her bottom lip between her lip before stepping forward, flinging her arms around the freckled boy in front of her, and burying her nose in the slight dip between his pectorals.  


‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she says, making a fist with one of her hands behind Marco’s back and rotating it clockwise over and over again. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’  


“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Marco says. He’s clearly disturbed by one of his friends flying through his door to apologize but continues, “Why are you doing that?” He chuckles when she shakes her head against his chest.  


“Hey,” he says, gently reaching his arms behind his back and taking her much smaller hands in his, forcing Krista to cease her excessive pleas for forgiveness. The girl looks up at him finally once he brings their clasped hands up between them. “You can stop apologizing now.”  


“I’m so sorry, Marco. We didn’t think about the singing thing….” Krista sighs and lets her head fall forward until it meets Marco’s chest again. He leans down carefully, forcing Krista to look back at him, and places a feather light kiss on her temple.  


A siren goes off in my head. And everywhere else, really. Consuming my senses until all I can see is flashing red lights and all I can hear is an obnoxious ringing.  


_I told you you were jealous_ , the brain genie says when the sirens don’t make any indication of turning off.  


_Am not._  


_Are too._  


_Am not._  


_Are too._  


_Okay, fine. Maybe I just have the hots for Krista or something_ , I settle on. What else could it be, right? I’m probably just jealous that Marco’s got more game than I do. Yeah. That’s it.  


“Really, it’s all right,” Marco says, pulling me out of my thoughts and pulling Krista farther into the room. She sits on the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to do. I wince at the thought. _It’s probably second nature to her by now. They’ve known each other for a while_. I wince at the realization. _Face it, he’s got other people. He’s got friends. He’s got other people to turn to at the end of the day when he needs someone to lean on. He doesn’t have to choose you._  


I shake my head in an attempt to silence my inner monologue, but it keeps going.  


_Who do you have? Armin?_ Eren? _You’re friendless; without him, you’re nothing._  


I slap myself on the cheek then, successfully garnering the attention of the other two people in the room and hurting myself in the process. I can already feel a bruise forming. Fucking fantastic.  


“Jean!” Marco yelps and pulls my hand into one of his own, using the other to hesitantly prod at the welt growing on my cheek. I hiss when he accidentally pokes a little too hard and he pulls away immediately.  


“Sorry, sorry. Just distracted,” I say to the two very confused looking individuals in front of me. _That’s a bit of an understatement._  


Marco squints warily, but lets me get away with my bullshit. He’s probably just not pressing it now because Krista is sitting on the bed below him.  


“Okay….,” he says, turning to the girl in question, “did you need anything else, Krista? We were playing cards, you can join us, if you like.”  


_No no no no no no_ , I chant. Not that I dislike Krista or anything - I might even have a crush on her, who knows - it was just so much nicer hanging out before she showed up. _Please, Krista. Please please_ please _go away._  


“Oh, no. That’s a nice offer,” hell fucking yes she’s leaving, “but I came over to talk, actually?” Hell fucking no she’s not way to get your hopes up, Kirschtein.  


‘Talk?’ Marco switches to Sign Language. I bet it’s because he thinks I don’t know enough to keep up with them. He’s right, of course, but it still hurts for him to so openly exclude me.  


‘Your brother?’ Krista says. Marco and I both freeze at the implication, our eyes locking over her little golden head in realization.  


“You’re gonna call his parents?” I ask the girl, though my eyes never leave Marco’s.  


“And translate,” she adds. Marco blinks a few times before shaking his head and reaching into his pocket for his phone, handing it off to Krista unquestioningly. She flips it open while he lists off the number.  


_This is crazy,_ I think. _Krista can’t just call up Marco’s parents and demand an explanation about his brother, can she?_  


“Put it on speaker,” Marco says once Krista’s hit send and pressed the device to her ear. She squints at him, obviously confused, but the only response Marco gives to her is to jerk his chin in my direction. She puts the phone on the desk so we can both hear.  


_Aw, look. You’re being included!_ The brain genie coos patronizingly.  


_Aw, look. You’re being a little bitch!_ I think back.  


“ _Hello?_ ” A voice on the other end of the line says after four or five rings. Krista signs to Marco, a translation so quick I almost miss it.  


“Hey,” Marco says, leaning towards the phone as he speaks. All three of us wait for another response.  


“ _Marco? Is Krista with you?_ ” The feminine voice calls out again, now accompanied by the sound of someone ruffling papers.  


“Hi, Mía,” Krista chimes into the phone. Mía responds with a very amicable, yet very brief, greeting. _They’ve done this before_.  


“Is Santino okay?” Marco asks once Krista gives him the go-ahead. “Do they know what happened?”  


There’s a pause on Mía’s side of the line, followed by a heavy sigh directly into the speaker of the phone. “ _You’re not gonna like it._ ”  


Krista translates so fast, Marco hardly misses a beat before responding: “I don’t care. Tell me, please? Is he okay?”  


“ _Marco…._ ” the voice trails off. Krista refrains from translating until she gets more information but I can tell she’s stressed. Heck, we all are. All three of us standing around Marco’s tattered old phone, waiting for the news to break.  


“ _Marco….he robbed a pharmacy_ ,” Mía says weakly into the phone, her voice so faint and tired that Krista and I both have to lean forward to catch what she’s saying. Krista gulps when she pieces it together, our eyes locking before we both look back at Marco standing to my right with his arms crossed and a knuckle between his teeth.  


‘He robbed a pharmacy,’ Krista signs slowly. Slow enough that I can actually catch it, and slow enough that it gives Marco enough time to process it piece by piece. The knuckle in his mouth drops to his side in shock. “ _What?_ ” He whispers into the silence hanging over us.  


‘Marco….’ Krista starts, but it’s too late. Marco’s already swiped the phone off the desk, holding it to his trembling his lips before speaking again.  


“What do you mean he robbed a pharmacy? He would never….he couldn’t….” his voice cracks. Krista reaches for the phone, gently prying it from his hands while I move to put an arm around his shoulder.  


“ _I told you you weren’t gonna like it_ ,” Mía grumbles and Krista translates. The boy in my arms quivers, forcing me to squeeze tighter in fear that his knees might buckle without something to hold him upright.  


“Why?” Marco croaks, both hands coming up to rub his eyes.  


“ _I really shouldn’t tell you_ ,” she responds; a response which Krista is very hesitant to translate, I might add.  


“ _Mía_.”  


“ _No, Marco. You need to stay focused in school right now, okay? You need to get good grades to keep your scholarship. Let me worry about Santino_.”  


“ _Mía!_ ” Marco yells, one fist connecting with the desk right next to the phone. I pull my arm away, startled at the sudden outburst from my usually calm friend.  


The other voice pauses, clearly wary of revealing too much to Marco. We wait for what seems like minutes but is likely only a few seconds before Mía speaks again.  


“ _He tried to steal a pair of hearing aids_ ,” she whispers. Krista and I both gasp, freezing in place. “ _He tried to steal them for you, Marco_.”  


I’d love to tell you all about whatever the fuck happened next, except that I really can’t. Not because I don’t remember it, but because I remember it so vividly that to recap it would take years of my life and it might actually physically hurt me to tell you.  


The basic rundown, though? Yeah, I could give you that.  


Krista translated. Marco’s face turned red and he clenched his fists at his side. Marco grabbed his coat and his keys and sprinted around the room shouting “I’m heading out there,” as he picked up a change of clothes and not much else. I remember Marco completely ignoring Krista’s frantic pleas to stay, because Mía could take care of it. I remember Marco shoving me harshly in the chest when I tried to block the door. I remember Marco snarling as I stumbled back and landed on my ass in the middle of the hall. I remember Marco jumping over my legs as Krista and I yelled after him to stop and think. I remember Marco beating us to his car in the parking lot by a good thirty seconds, turning the engine, and flooring it as he raced off campus.  


“Oh my God,” Krista had panted beside me as we watched Marco’s car turn down the main road towards the highway.  


“C-can he even drive?!” I yelled back frantically.  


“Yeah,” she’d said, “he can drive, he just really shouldn’t at night when it’s harder to see.”  


“Oh my God,” I had whispered.  


“Oh my God,” Krista had agreed.  


“What do we do?”  


“I don’t know.”  


“Oh my God,” I said.  


“Oh my God,” she agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no. What have I done.


	8. Should I Stay Or Should I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean takes some time for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7959301/chapters/18203407)Piece By Piece and this fic are on an alternating schedule right now, so if you get really bored and need more fluff you can pop on over to that story. Anyway, enjoy!

Krista and I finally walked back to the dorms after the headlights on Marco’s car were no longer visible in the dim twilight. Neither of us spoke, but then again, neither of us had anything to say. I let Krista head off to her room right away, even though I felt myself being pulled by some indescribable force towards the scene of Marco’s breakdown. 

The room in question was exactly as we’d left it - which was kind of a problem considering that neither Krista nor I had bothered to close the door in the heat of the moment. It was evident that no one had touched it, though. A fact for which I was extremely grateful. I didn’t want to have to explain to Marco when he came back that all of his stuff had been stolen while I wasted time staring dejectedly after his car in the parking lot. 

I closed the door behind me once I got inside, sighing when I felt the wrist I had sprained earlier in the semester twinge in protest. Must have re-sprained it. My back hurt too, as did my legs, and my chest, and my pride. I knew Marco was pretty strong but…. 

I took off my shirt to examine the damage. Marco didn’t have a floor length mirror like Armin had in our room, but he did have a scaled down version hanging from the inside of his dresser door. Carefully, I opened the piece of cabinetry; almost ashamed to be snooping through Marco’s things. 

_It’s not snooping_ , I tell myself when I catch a whiff of his laundry detergent on his clothes, _I’m just checking the damage_. 

Unfortunately, the damage is worse than I had hoped. I figured a bruise or two, but this? My entire back is red from the impact, a few purplish bruises sticking out below my hips where I’d no doubt hurt my tailbone again. Worst, though, is the rugburn stretching laterally across my shoulder blades - angry, red, and (I discover after gingerly prodding at it with my uninjured hand) painful. _I didn’t even notice it, how could I not notice this?_

I try to pull my shirt back over my head so I can get out of Marco’s room and back into my own, but the jab of pain I feel when I roll my shoulders is enough to convince me otherwise. “Fuuuck,” I hiss out through my teeth when I’m forced to throw my shirt aside. There’s gotta be some way to fix this up, right? Some magical remedy for rugburn? 

Following that train of thought ultimately leads me farther into Marco’s closet. _C’mon, Marco. I know you have some in here….dammit, where do you keep it?_ I rummage through neatly folded piles of clothing, searching for the basic first aid kit that all college kids are forced upon by their mothers. At the very least, he’s got to have some Aspirin. _Please, Marco, help a brother out? A-ha!_

I locate a bottle of Advil under a pile of Marco’s socks, along with a small pack of band-aides and some disinfectant. I pop two of the pills in my mouth and swallow them dry. Figuring it can’t hurt to put some of the salve on my back, too, I cautiously squeeze out a dime sized amount of the goo and rub it into my shoulders. _Oh, shit FUCK that stings._

The pain does not subside as soon as I would like it too, which makes me grumpy. It continues to sting and tear at the lining of my skin even after it’s dried, and that makes me even grumpier. It stings even worse when I try to pull my shirt back over it, which makes me so grumpy that I give up on the idea entirely and walk around bare chested instead. After a few minutes, I am forced to cave into my own human needs. Marco’s room is cold. Like, really fucking cold. And I can’t just walk around in nothing but my jeans and expect not to freeze to death. 

I pick up my shirt from where it lies crumpled on the floor and straighten out the fabric so that the blue and red _The Who_ logo faces towards me. It’s a nice shirt, really. Probably one of the nicest shirts I own. Unfortunately, it’s also one of the tightest shirts I own, since I’ve had it since I was I don’t know, fifteen maybe? 

Sighing, I lift the shirt towards my face again, the band logo staring into my soul like it knows what I’m thinking and it doesn’t like it. 

_Don’t fucking do it_ , it says, _it’s fucking creepy_. 

_What other choice do I have?_ I think back, dropping the fabric to the floor a second time and turning to face the dresser behind me. The door swings open silently when I pull the handle again and I stare inside, trying to locate the stack of shirts I was digging through earlier. _Bingo_ , I think when I find them piled on the third shelf, grabbing the top one off the stack and throwing it on without looking at what it might be. If I’m lucky, it’ll be just a plain black shirt, but if I know Marco at all, it’ll probably have a pun on it. That dork. 

The size difference makes putting the shirt on a whole lot easier since it doesn’t cling like saran wrap to my boney torso, instead resting lightly on my shoulders and hanging comfortably off the rest of me. I sigh in relief when I don’t feel the cotton catching at the tears in my skin and turn back towards the bed. My backpack from last night is still at the foot of the bunk, abandoned along with my shirt and the majority of Marco’s possessions. I unzip it and put the discarded clothing inside so I won’t accidentally trip on it and hurt myself (again) walking around the room. 

_What do I do now?_ I ask myself once it’s zipped away and the floor is clear of debris that I could potentially injure myself on. _Should I go? Or should I stay and wait for Marco to get back?_

The thought of Marco sends my stomach cartwheeling. He’d been so upset when he left and Krista said he wasn’t supposed to be driving in the dark anyway and oh God what if he crashes everything would be my fault what if I just killed my best friend- 

_Woah_ , the brain genie interjects, not for the first time. _Calm down, Kirschtein. Think positive and assess the situation you’ve got going on here_. 

I resign. Of course he’s right; he’s the literal voice of reason. So I do what he says and analyze my options. 

Option one: I stay in Marco’s room for the night because I don’t have a key to lock the door and someone’s gonna have to stay here anyway. Maybe he comes back tonight, maybe not. Jinae’s a good couple hours away, but he could make it back before sunrise if he really wanted to. 

Option two: I go back to my dorm and sleep for an eternity. This leaves Marco’s room open and vulnerable, but at least I get some rest. I sigh at the idea. There’s no way I can leave Marco’s stuff when anyone could take it. I’d sooner kill myself than see the look on his face when he realized someone had stolen his precious succulents. 

Stay it is, then. I pull off my jeans, revelling in the feeling of the cool air over my thighs before I pull on the pair of sweatpants I brought over the night before. Maybe if I wear comfortable clothes it’ll help me relax? Yeah. Yeah, that ought to do it. 

The room around me is still chaotic; cards still littering the floor, books knocked over on the desk, and clothes on the ground from when Marco tried to pack in such a hurry. The rational part of me tells me to leave it until morning, at least. To do some damage control once I’ve slept off the cloudy feeling in my brain and the pain in my back. But the other part of me doesn’t want to listen. The other part of me, the part that I listen to, tells me to clean this shit up ASAP so Marco won’t have to deal with it when he gets home. 

_Home?_ A voice in my head echoes. It could be the brain genie, but I’m too tired and too busy counting cards on the floor to be one hundred percent sure. I shrug in response. _Of course it’s his home, why wouldn’t it be?_

_What about Jinae? What about where his family is?_ the voice continues. It seems like the kind of sarcastic shit the genie would say, so I roll with it. 

_He has people he cares about here, too_ , I tell him. Home is where the heart is, right? And Marco’s got some of his heart here….doesn’t he? He’s got Krista and the theater kids and Armin and maybe even me on a good day. Surely he thinks of this as his home, too? 

_Don’t flatter yourself, kid. He doesn’t need you,_ he says. I mentally flip him off before wrapping the grimy rubber band around the stack of cards in my hand. As much as I’d love to have this self-hatred inducing discussion, Marco needs me. He needs stability. He needs to come back to a room that he can call home. 

I place the deck of cards back on top of the dresser and turn to the desk beside me. The books he usually keeps so nicely stacked are everywhere, dislodged from their typical places by Marco’s upset. I seriously doubt my ability to pile them as neatly as they were before today, but I give it a go. _Shit, how did he organize these_ , I think once I’ve picked up a dozen or so paperbacks. _Alphabetically? Last name of author? Genre? Fuck!_

They end up getting organized by _Jean’s preference_. Which is to say that they just get stacked in the most structurally sound way possible because I’m too tired and too inexperienced to organize them any way else. Still, they don’t look half bad. I mean yeah it’s not as attractive as it was before, but I’m still pretty sure that Marco will appreciate the thought behind it more than he’ll care about the pitiful execution. I even tried to put some of his favorites on the top of the pile because I’m considerate as fuck. 

Once the books are somewhat restored to order, I decide to start on the laundry. Well, if you can call the clothing that’s flung haphazardly around the tiny dorm room laundry. It’s all clean anyway, so I pick up several of Marco’s shirts, two pairs of pants, one pair of boxers, and a stray sock before putting them back in the closet. I even attempt to fold them, though I’m not exactly sure how one manages to fold pants correctly. It’s still more than I’ve ever done for my own clothing, though. 

I don’t stop my cleaning frenzy until I open the dresser door and notice my own reflection in the mirror. 

“Oh, you’ve gotta be shitting me,” I mutter under my breath, staring back at the monstrosity in the mirror. I’m not talking about the grumpy look on my face, or my disheveled hair (for once). I’m talking about the shirt I stole from Marco without actually looking at. “ _Goddammit, Marco_.” 

The shirt in question is all black, save for the white script across the chest that proudly reads: TECHIES DO IT IN THE DARK. I wince and groan at the horrible pun. Leave it to Marco to find the worst shirts in existence. 

The painfulness of having the pun branded across my chest forces me to slam the dresser shut in exasperation and examine the room. Everything’s put away and organized, but I’m too exhausted to be proud of my cleaning prowess - I just want rest. I want to climb up into the top bunk and curl up into a ball of emotional instability and sleep for a decade or two. Maybe even three. Something tells me that’s not going to happen, but I can dream. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I start hauling myself up the wooden ladder of the bunk bed. 

I don’t make it to the top. My shoulders ache in protest the second I try to pull myself onto the mattress, and my wrist flares up again when I grip the bars surrounding the top bed. _So much for that idea,_ I think amid the stream of curses spilling from between my lips as I lower myself to the floor. _Guess I’ll just have to sleep in the bottom bunk._

I freeze before the thought has fully formed. Did I really just suggest sleeping in….Marco’s bed? While Marco’s away? Isn’t that crossing some sort of line? The brain genie yells at me for even stopping to question the logical idea, but I’m so inundated with self doubt that I can’t formulate a witty response to any of his sass. 

_It’s a bed, what’s the big deal?_ He says. 

_It’s_ Marco’s _bed, that’s the big deal_ , I think back. And it’s true; I really wouldn’t have a problem sleeping in a stranger’s bed, or even in Armin’s if we had to trade spots for the night. It’s just that this is Marco’s bed. It’s where he sleeps every night. It’s where we watch shitty movies and laugh at nothing when it’s late enough that everything seems side-splittingly hilarious. It’s where he broke down in tears the other night. It’s Marco’s….and I can’t corrupt that. I can’t wrap myself up in his blankets knowing that he’s out there right now searching - presumably - for his brother. I can’t lay down on the sheets that smell so much like him without worrying that my own scent will rub it away. I can’t sleep in his bed knowing that he could return any second and find me drooling on his pillow. I can’t I can’t I can’t. 

I try to pull myself up to the top bunk again, this time failing worse than before. My hand has barely gripped the first rung of the ladder when I’m forced to let go by the searing pain in my shoulder and the feeling of something trickling down my back. It occurs to me that it might be blood from the agitated rugburn. _Goddammit_. 

I bang my head against the side of the bunk in exasperation because I know this means I’ll be sleeping in Marco’s bed whether I like it or not. Emphasis on the _or not_. I have to give up once my head starts hurting from the impact of bone on wood, though, because I realize that adding to my injuries is probably not the best way to go about fixing them. An unfortunate realization, really. I was getting into a good rhythm. 

Marco’s bed lies under me, completely oblivious to my pain. I stare at it through trauma bleary eyes, allowing myself to scan the fuzzy blankets strewn across the surface and the numerous pillows leaning against the wall. It looks so comfortable, but I shouldn’t….. 

_Fuck it_ , I decide after a few minutes of staring at the bedding forlornly. _I need sleep and Marco’s bed looks comfy as fuck._

I cautiously lower myself onto the mattress; extra careful not to jostle around to much in fear of hurting myself further. It’s a soft surface, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up with bruises just from lying down on it. The blankets Marco uses are really fucking soft and I find myself burrowing inside them once I’ve managed to lay down, despite the constant nagging in my head telling me that this is wrong. But once I breathe his scent in through my nose, immediately relaxing into the bed as I inhale, I’m done for. _Mmm, smells good_ I think before my eyes slide shut and my breathing evens out. The brain genie remains blissfully quiet as I drift off to sleep, and for once, I welcome the growing silence. 

. 

.. 

… 

Monday morning comes sooner than I would like, even though I technically avoid getting up until noon. I decide upon waking that I’m just too tired to go to class today and too sore to do anything aside from laze about. _Besides_ , the part of my brain that’s still reveling in Marco’s scent clinging to the blankets says, _I can’t leave Marco’s room unlocked while I go to class. Something could get stolen_. 

And before you ask, I do realize how fucking dumb that is. I realize that staying in Marco’s room until he returns is pretty pathetic and unnecessarily cautious. I acknowledge that it’s kind of creepy for me to be living out of his room until he gets back. I recognize that I’ve definitely crossed some sort of line, but I can’t just….leave. Something’s keeping me tethered to this room; some ridiculous, metaphorical force that keeps my feet from carrying me out the door into the hallway and down the sidewalk to my own dorm. I’m sure it’s like that cheesy crap they talk about in movies and young adult books, but mostly it’s just bullshit. 

Unfortunately, it’s bullshit that keeps me from leaving Marco’s room for the entire school day. I think I step out twice to use the bathroom across the hall, but other than that it keeps my feet planted firmly on the carpeted floor of my friend’s dorm. What do I do for that entire day, you ask? Why, absolutely nothing, of course. I mess around on the computer for a bit, like a few things on Facebook, read a few pages of _A Raisin in the Sun_ , doodle on my notes. The usual. Around four o’clock, I give in to the growling of my stomach and pillage Marco’s room for snacks, only to find that all he keeps in his room is a box of Poptarts and a couple bags of microwave popcorn. I decide they will have to suffice for the evening, even though the saccharine taste of the Poptarts burns my throat and Marco’s microwave does a fucking awful job of popping popcorn. 

At five o’clock, I cave to another request from my body and run from Marco’s room to get water. I come back minutes later with a handful of water bottles from the vending machine down the hall, chugging half of them on the way back. Who knew sitting around on your ass all day would require so much hydration? 

At six, I finally get tired of being alone. It feels like I’ve been shut in for weeks, not just a few hours, and I can start to feel it messing with my head. I’m also in desperate need of some new company, since the brain genie does jack shit to improve my mood and is a less than elegant conversationalist. I decide to text Marco after a very serious internal debate; part of me wanting to give him some space and the other half desperately needing to check on him and make sure he’s okay and not, you know, dead in a ditch somewhere. I pull my phone from my pocket and open my messages, thumbing through them until I find Marco’s name. My fingers shake as I hit the text option next to his contact information, but I manage to type out a few messages in spite of my trembling. 

**To: Marco** hey did you get to jinae safely 

**To: Marco** please respnd i dont wanna find out my best friend died on the side of the road 

**To: Marco** please marco? we’re really scared 

**To: Marco** ok well I’m really scared. krista probably is too but shes not here right now 

**To: Marco** please text me back 

**To: Marco** marcoooo 

**To: Marco** please marco i’m sorry just please txt me back 

**To: Marco** or call me. or krista. 

**To: Marco** goddammit marco, i’ll kick your ass if it turns out you got yourself killed i don’t even care if youre dead i’ll kill you again if you got yourself hurt you crazy son of a bitch 

**To: Marco** ok im sorry i dont mean that. plz plz plz call me back??? 

**To: Marco** Please, Marco? You’re scaring me. 

I force myself to stop after that last text, figuring that spamming his inbox with poorly written messages won’t make him any more likely to respond. The brain genie also reminds me that I’ll look really fucking desperate if the EMTs lifting Marco’s body onto an ambulance see the excessive number of messages I sent him when they come to retrieve his body from a car wreck. They might get the wrong idea, and the last thing I want is for anyone thinking that Marco would ever lower his standards enough to date me. 

_The hell are you talking about?_ the genie asks once the thought pops into my head. I shrug. 

The truth of the matter is….Marco’s too good for me. Hell, Marco’s too good for most people. He’s a goddamn saint. If he were to die in a tragic car accident, the technicians moving his body should think he was dating someone actually worthy of his affections. People should think he’s dating a supermodel, not some sweatpant wearing twenty year old barely making it through college. Marco deserves the fucking world. He sure as hell deserves more than me. 

The brain genie doesn’t argue my self deprecating stance on the issue, but he does recoil slightly at the mental image of Marco with his arm draped around the tiny waist of a beautiful woman in a cocktail dress. And maybe I recoil a little too. But you can’t prove that, so let’s just pretend I didn’t, shall we? 

I look down to the phone still clutched in my hands….still clutched in my very much shaking hands. _Well, that’s probably not healthy_ , I think, carefully placing the phone beside me as I sink down onto the bed. I still check it every few seconds to make sure I didn’t miss anything, but at least I’m not holding onto it like my life depends on it anymore. 

. 

.. 

... 

At eight o’clock, I decide to put my phone away since it’s becoming painfully obvious that Marco won’t be responding anytime soon. Also my eyes hurt from staring longingly at the screen. Before I can put it away, though, I turn the volume all the way up and make sure the settings are all perfect so if he does text, I won’t miss it. Like, it would be physically impossible for me to miss it. Even if I don’t somehow notice the rapid buzzing or the flashing lights emanating from my backpack, there’s no way to ignore the blaring tune of Justin Timberlake’s _Sexy Back_ at full volume. 

Once that’s taken care of and I’m content with my inability to ignore any incoming texts, I collapse on Marco’s bed, completely unsure of what to do. I’ve already done everything there is to do, right? I scan the room in search of something to entertain myself. Computer? Nah, did that earlier. Sketchbook? I think I’ve done enough art to last a lifetime these past few hours. More homework? Let’s not get crazy, I’m not that good of a student. I turn on my side so that I’m facing the stack of books on Marco’s desk and scan the spines until my eyes land on something that makes me reconsider my ‘no more homework policy.’ 

“Hmmm,” I grumble as I reach over to the pile of books closest to the bed, picking up the first book I can. The spine has _The Glass Menagerie_ in swirly white script that makes me want to barf a little bit, but I flip it over to the cover regardless once I’ve adjusted myself in Marco’s bed. The front has the title in the same winding font but this time it’s accompanied by a picture of a glass unicorn with the horn broken off and lying by its tiny glass hooves. _Gaaaay_ , the brain genie jeers at me when the effeminate cover doesn’t stop me from flipping it open to the first page. I don’t let his snide remarks deter me, either - instead continuing on and reading the book in my hands. 

It’s….well, it’s not exactly what I expected. I was kind of expecting something a little more….girly, if i’m being completely honest. I mean yeah, it’s mostly about this chick named Laura and her mother trying to find a husband for her, but the protagonist is Laura’s brother, Tom. Tom’s kind of interesting because he does his best to support his family, but ends up making some mistakes that just make everything worse. He brings home a boy for Laura, they fall in love, yadayadayada, and it turns out that the boy was engaged the whole time. Laura ends up giving him a glass unicorn from her collection of glass atrocities (Marco’s request for so many of the creatures a few months ago finally makes sense), and he leaves. All in all, it’s pretty mopey and pretty tragic and I’m not sure what it is that Marco sees in this play. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, I just can’t find anything that would make it stand out to my freckled friend. 

I lay the book down on my chest once I’ve finished, thinking it over. I reach for it a second time - despite the fact that it’s past midnight and I should really be getting to bed - and scan the book again. Marco’s one of those people who likes to write little notes in the margins of his books (luckily) so I flip through the thin pages in search of clues. Most of the time, Marco writes really simple stuff like, “ _the ladder represents escape_ ,” or “ _the glass figures portray different aspects of Laura’s personality,_ ” but I notice a highlighted chunk of text I hadn’t noticed before about halfway through my search. 

“The past turns into everlasting regret if you don’t plan for it,” it reads. Marco’s highlighted it, underlined it, even circled it with blue pen, but he hasn’t written anything down to accompany it. I run the line through my head a few times. _The past turns into everlasting regret if you don’t plan for it the past turns into everlasting regret if you don’t plan for it, oh!_

I toss the book onto the bed as I sit up, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the bunk above me, and scurry over to the wall of photographs behind the desk. I scan each of them thoroughly, trying to locate the one I have in mind. _C’mon, Marco. Where’d you put it?_

“Bingo,” I say aloud once I’ve located the polaroid in question: a poorly rendered image of Marco and his sister jumping on the couch with their hairbrushes pressed against their smiling lips. My fingers shake as I take it off the wall, but I try not to let the thoughts that I’m intruding on Marco’s privacy stop me from lifting the picture to my scrutinizing gaze. 

Marco’s hearing aids are just barely visible in the photograph; almost impossible to see in the glare of the sun. What was it he had said last night? _We couldn’t afford them after a while?_ I stare down at the boy in my hands, reveling in the smile plastered on his face and the expression of sheer joy that completely dominates his features. This is Marco. This is Marco when everything's going right for him. This is Marco when he’s happy, and excited, and when everything in his life is just _good_. This is Marco like I rarely see him. 

I flip the photograph over in my hands, freezing when I notice the neat, loopy writing on the back. The line from _The Glass Menagerie_ is copied in blue pen across the top, along with the date I assume the picture was taken. 

_The past turns into everlasting regret if you don’t plan for it_. I run that through my head again and stop breathing entirely when the realization hits me like a baseball bat to the side of the head. _Oh, Marco…._

I stick the photo back onto the wall in front of me, my heart breaking with the realization. Of course Marco wanted to keep his hearing aids, of course he never planned on losing them, of course of course of course. _God fucking dammit, Jean! Can’t you do ANYTHING right?!_ The thought that I should have seen it sooner knocks me off my feet - literally - and I find myself lying on my back on top of Marco’s blankets. I breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent and swear, still clinging stubbornly to the fabric, and try to imagine that he’s here with me. I chuckle when I realize I can hear his voice perfectly in my head. 

“Please don’t worry about it,” he’d say, “I don’t need them. And you shouldn’t feel bad about it, Jean. Please don’t blame yourself?” Then he’d pat me on the shoulder and I’d feel silly and maybe even kind of selfish for thinking that Marco’s lack of hearing aids was my fault. We’d laugh about it for a while, then we’d collapse onto the bed and talk about nothing in particular until sunlight started spilling through the blinds covering his window. Marco would complain about not having slept the night before, blaming me for the great injustice, and I would laugh and ruffle his hair, letting the silky strands slide between the gaps in my fingers. He’d push me off his bed in a fit of giggles before muttering a raspy ‘goodnight’ under his breath and burrowing underneath the blankets like he always does. I’d watch him until his breathing evened out, blush when I caught myself staring, and climb onto the bed above to join him in sleep. 

I sigh and curl into a ball, pulling the blankets around my bony and injured shoulders as I do. I’m still wearing his dorky tee shirt, but I don’t let that distract me from wiggling deeper into the nest of fuzzy blankets and pillows. _How is it that Marco can divert the conversation away from himself when he isn’t even here to do so?_ Must be part of the facade he puts up: it’s so powerful I can feel it from hundred of miles away. _That’s bullshit_ , I think, even though it’s proving to be pretty true. 

The blankets rub against my shoulders uncomfortably when I turn over and Marco’s scent is slowly being replaced by my own, but somehow I’m able to drift off to sleep by tracing the bold lettering of his shirt with my fingers and counting the number of pictures he has taped to his wall. 

. 

.. 

… 

I wake up sometime later to the sound of footsteps, though I can’t be one hundred percent sure if I’m imagining them or if there is truly someone in Marco’s room with me. I decide I don’t care and will myself to go back to sleep, curling my fists in the bedding and rolling onto my back. 

_Thunk. Thunk thunk thunk. Thunk thunk thunkthunkthunk._

_Thunk._ Pause. _Thunk._ Pause. 

“....Jean?” _Thunk._

“Mmmm.” Pause. 

“Jean, are you awake?” _Thunk thunk._

I nod my head. Pause. 

“Why are you sleeping in my bed?” _Thunk. Thunkthunkthunk._

“S’comfy.” Pause. 

The blankets shuffle around me and the bed dips suddenly. I consider opening my eyes to analyze the sudden intrusion, but decide to let it go because I’m too tired to do anything else. There’s a sudden warmth against my side and I unconsciously nuzzle into it, even after it takes on a more solid form and wraps its arms around me. I think I may even wrap my arms around it, too. 

“Night, Jean.” The voice says. 

“Mmmnight, Marco.” I say back before we both drift off into peaceful silence, and eventually, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> URGENT: SOMEONE WITH MORE ARTISTIC TALENT THAN I  
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DRAW JEAN IN MARCO'S 'TECHIES DO IT IN THE DARK' SHIRT  
> I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER


	9. If I'd Stare Too Long, I'd Probably Break Down and Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco returns and Jean has some thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha I'm back sorry it took a while  
> URGENT: EVERYONE LOOK AT THIS [BEAUTIFUL ART](http://pololotp.tumblr.com/post/151397992012) THAT FISHYNOOT MADE FOR THIS FIC I'M SO HAPPY ABOUT IT I LOVE YOUR ART

_Bzzt bzzt bzzt. Bzzzzt bzzzzt bzzzzt. Bzzt bzzt bzzt._

_Turn it ooooofffff_ , I think when a series of buzzing sounds wakes me early the next morning. _I wanna sleeeeep_. 

I shut my eyes tighter, as if that will somehow keep me from waking up, and move to pull the blankets higher around my shoulders. The task of doing so, however, is never completed. 

_Motherfucking shit!_ I mentally scream at the feeling of the fabric rubbing against the rugburn on my shoulders. The pain comes seemingly out of nowhere, forcing me to drop the blankets from my grip and arch my back away from the uncomfortable feeling. This proves mildly disastrous when the angle not only makes the burning pain worse, but brings me face to face with my best friend. 

“Marco?” I say aloud, though he definitely doesn’t see the words on my lips with the position we’re both in. Marco’s head rests on my shoulder, his nose tucked into the crook of my neck and his hair tickling my chin while his hand lies across my chest. One of his legs is tangled between my own; I smile at the familiarity of it since it so closely resembles our usual arrangement on the floor during movie nights. My smile immediately turns into one of my trademark scowls when I notice how my arms are wrapped protectively around Marco’s shoulders, though. _Goddammit_. 

“Hey, Freckles,” I squeeze the boy in my arms to wake him up because as nice as this set-up is, I’m pretty sure it crosses some kind of line. There’s no way this is acceptable sleepover behaviour. Also, I need him to turn off that god-awful buzzing. 

“Mmmm,” Marco grubles, tightening the hand over my chest into a fist and nuzzling into the side of my neck. My heart picks up slightly at the way his lips inadvertently brush against my collarbone, but the warm-fuzzy feelings are quickly replaced when the tightening of the fabric on my chest pulls the shirt across the rugburn on my back. I hiss when it catches on what I assume is some dried blood and squirm until Marco is no longer keeping me pinned to my back. 

“Marco,” I try again. His eyes flutter open, presumably from feeling the vibrations in my chest under his palm and cheek, and he gazes up at me with a small smile. It fades quickly when he notices the position we’re in. 

“Ah!” he yelps, pulling away from my shoulder to sit up in bed. I follow suit, though the wince and hiss of pain I give when I do so must alert him of my growing discomfort. “Oh….are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he continues on while tucking his long legs under himself so he can face me better; I shake my head. Marco squints his eyes, but he must finally notice the obnoxious buzzing coming from underneath the pillow because he turns his alarm off before turning back to me. 

‘No….not today,’ I sign to him, though it hurts me to do so. I mean, yeah. Marco hurt me the other night, not that I hold that against him, but I don’t like the idea of him knowing. I don’t like imagining the look of absolute torture crossing his features when he realizes that he hurt me. 

‘Not today?’ He signs back, hands flying through the motions with exceptional grace. 

“You, uh, well you kind of pushed me the other day?” I start, immediately waving my hands in front of my face when Marco’s eyes widen and his lip starts trembling, “No! No! It’s fine, it’s fine! I swear, I’m fine!” 

Marco doesn’t appear to believe me, if the fact that he buries his head in his hands is anything to go by. He begins shaking his head vigorously so I reach out one hand to rub soothingly through his hair. I wince when the normally silky locks get tangled between my fingers, as if he hasn’t brushed his hair in a while. 

“I’m so sorry,” he groans into his hands, so quietly that I have to lean forward until I’m practically folded in half to hear him. 

‘No, don’t be,’ I tell him once my relentless poking forces him to straighten up to face me again. ‘Not your fault.’ He shakes his head at the admission. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed you….you were just trying to help,” he says, “are you - are you okay?” 

I shrug. In truth, I’m not that badly injured. It’s just a fucking rug burn and some bruises, it’s not like Marco _shot me_ or anything. But if we’re being honest here….I probably didn’t handle it very well. I’m not a med student, dammit; I don’t know to heal this kind of superficial shit. 

‘Yeah. Just hurts,’ I tell him. I’m tempted to give him a more detailed account of my injuries, but I don’t know the sign for rugburn. Or bruise. Or blood. Or anything remotely medical, really. 

Then, out of nowhere, Marco decides to give me a fucking heart attack. 

“Can I see?” He says, biting his lip and averting his gaze like he’s afraid to ask. I flinch at the seemingly innocent request, certain that it’ll end badly if I give into Marco’s solicitation. The brain genie seems to agree. 

_Nope. Nope nope nope. Remember the no homo rule, Jean? REMEMBER?_ He shouts between the blaring sirens resonating through my skull. _You’re already wearing his lame ass shirt, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make this worse for yourself!_

I’m sure I must look fucking fantastic, by the way. My mouth wide open, eyes squinted and brows furrowed as I try to listen to the brain genie’s advice while also staying focused on the freckled face in front of me. There may even be drool dripping down my chin, for all I know. 

“Hnk,” I manage to grunt when Marco cocks an eyebrow at my gorgeous display. 

“Is that a yes?” He asks hesitantly, one hand coming forward to wrap his graceful fingers around my wrist. It’s probably meant as a comforting gesture, but I can’t help focusing on the tingly feelings it sends running up my arm. _Don’t make it worse, don’t make it worse, don’t don’t don’t…._

‘Yeah, okay,’ I say with the hand not currently in Marco’s gentle grip. The brain genie bangs his head repeatedly on the BS o’meter at my acceptance. I don’t blame him. 

Marco gestures for me to kneel in front of him, and I hesitantly oblige, tucking my calves under me and resting my hands on the fabric of my sweatpants. The brain genie screams in agitation at my complacency, but his frustration only makes me smile. _Hahaha, sucker. Jean Kirschtein listens to NO ONE._

“Can you take off your shirt?” a voice says behind me. Okay, so Jean Kirschtein listens to some people. 

I reach behind me and carefully fist my hands in the fabric of Marco’s atrocious shirt, yanking until the thing slides off completely. I hiss when it rubs against my shoulders for the millionth time, but the sound is nothing in comparison to the gasp of surprise Marco lets out at the sight of it. 

“Oh, Jean,” he whispers and shifts closer to get a better look, his knees occasionally brushing my lower back. One of his hands carefully traces the outlines of the bruises on my hips and I shudder at the feeling of his fingertips against my flesh. Is it getting hot in here? I swear someone just turned the heat on. Maybe that’s just me. _Keep it together, Kirschtein._

“I did that?” Marco asks behind me and I notice that he’s stopped touching the purpled skin around the waistband of my sweats. He’s obviously referring to the rugburn, but I still can’t bring myself to tell him that he was the one who caused it. I shake my head instead, turning around so he can read my lips before I speak again. 

“Nah. I was just clumsy,” I smirk. Marco sits back on his heels to ponder my admission. He speaks again after a few moments of intense contemplation. 

“You’re a bad liar, Jean,” he states, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the world. He’s right, of course. I’m a shit liar. But would it really kill him to humor me, just this once? 

“Really. Don’t worry about it,” I sigh, even though the feeling of one of Marco’s hands coming to rest on my shoulder makes me want to stop arguing about it and relax into his touch. 

“Jean….did you clean this?” Marco’s hand begins moving along the inflamed skin and I slap him away. 

“Of course I cleaned it!” I snark back to him, though I have to repeat myself again when it occurs to me he can’t read my lips with my back to him. “I totally cleaned it!” 

“It’s infected,” he states, very matter of fact, and I glare at him in disbelief, mostly convinced he’s just pulling my leg. _It can’t be infected….I put that disinfectant shit on it! Modern medicine can’t be that ineffective, can it?_

“Bullshit! I put disinfec-AH!” I begin, until my voice breaks off on a manly grunt ultimately caused by Marco prodding at the ragged skin. 

Okay, so it’s more of a high pitched squeak than a manly grunt, but Marco’s deaf, so what he doesn’t know won’t fucking kill him. 

“See?” he says. 

_Smug bastard_ , I think. 

‘What should we do?’ I ask him grudgingly. As much as it hurts, I’m not in the mood to wash it off and disinfect it a second time - especially since I did such a shit job the first go-round. Marco hums thoughtfully behind me. 

“Hmm. Gimme a minute,” he says, squeezing my shoulder before shuffling off the bed and ninja rolling onto the floor. My back is still to his retreating frame, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that the _thump _of a body on carpet isn’t from Marco gracefully stepping out of bed. That, and I’ve watched him literally roll off his bed about a hundred times. He has a thing against doing it normally, I guess.__

“And don’t move!” he says while I’m still lost in thought; I jump at the sudden interruption, but otherwise obey. Not that I really have a choice, I can’t exactly ninja roll away with the bruises decorating my back like Jackson Pollock painting. Marco, however, can move, and he leaves the room in a flurry of towels and who know what else, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He comes back moments later with a damp washcloth, a bottle of something that reeks of alcohol, and a tube of what appears to be lotion. Marco smiles at me when he spots the distraught look on my face, but it doesn’t deter him from reassuming his place behind me on the bed. 

“Do you think you could lie down?” He requests, folding the washcloth over his arm and placing his assorted supplies on the bed beside him. I glare at him over my shoulder, but once again, I listen to Marco’s orders and collapse onto my stomach. My arms cross under my head in an effort to get comfortable while Marco’s legs cross under his body in an effort to get a little more leverage. 

“I’m gonna wash this off….okay?” Marco says, pushing the damp towel to my uninjured skin as he waits for a confirmation. I give him a thumbs up, he nods, and we begin the excruciating process of repairing my back. 

The cloth catches in the patchy skin at first, yet Marco’s surprisingly gentle with his ministrations; always slow, never pressing too hard, and never rubbing at the already irritated skin. I catch myself wanting to drift off under him, but something’s still bothering me about this whole situation and I find myself voicing the touchy question before I can really stop myself. 

‘Is your brother okay?’ I ask, though it probably doesn’t translate well since I’m trying to sign over my head. The thought that I’m being pretty insensitive occurs to me, but it doesn’t stop me. Must be the smell of rubbing alcohol messing with my head. 

The insensitivity of the sudden question isn’t lost on Marco though, and he accidentally rubs a little too hard at a patch of dried skin, resulting in a violent shudder from me and a hurried apology from him. 

“Y-yes. He’s fine,” Marco whispers. I wonder if he’s hoping that I won’t hear him. Or maybe he just doesn’t want me to hear the way his voice catches in his throat. 

‘Is he free?’ I try signing again. Marco sighs, but he never stops cleaning out the infection on my back; and if his hands tremble slightly at the question, well, that never has to leave this room. 

“Not exactly,” he starts, carefully dabbing at a particularly rough patch of skin over my right shoulder blade. I turn towards him in a silent effort to get him to continue. 

“He’s gonna spend a few months in a juvenile detention facility about an hour out f-from Jinae.” I bite my lip at the admission. If what I remember from our first week of English together is correct, Marco’s brother is only what, fifteen? Sixteen? _Fuck, that young and already in juvie?…._

“Fuck, why?” I ask, no longer giving a shit about my own insensitivity. I see Marco nibble on his bottom lip out of the corner of my eye - an action he tries to hide by removing the towel from my back and beginning to douse it in what appears to be hydrogen peroxide. 

“You were there when Mía called. He - he robbed - he robbed….” Marco trails off, averting his gaze and pretending to be very interested in the bottle in his hands so he won’t have to meet my questioning eyes. “He robbed a pharmacy.” 

I don’t provoke him any further after that, too afraid that I’ll make him cry if I keep pressing the issue. Besides, I have to focus more on not screaming now that Marco’s started dousing the infected area with rubbing alcohol. I bite my fist to keep quiet. Marco shoots me an apologetic look, but doesn’t stop dabbing the acidic liquid into my back. I glare at him in retaliation; never once tearing my eyes away from the concentrated look on his face 

After a while, Marco cracks. 

“He tried to steal a pair of hearing aids….they caught him about a block away from the store. Santino....Santino’s never been the most athletic. He thought he could outrun the security guard but,” Marco sighs and lifts the towel from my skin before whispering, “he wasn’t thinking.” 

I stop biting my knuckle once it becomes obvious that Marco has no intention of continuing to torture me with his towel-from-hell. I want to ask, to get more details, but…. 

_Fuck it_ , the brain genie thinks for me, opening my mouth as if he has the authority to do so and plucking at my vocal chords until the question comes out despite my best efforts to keep it in. 

“Why’d he try to steal them?” _Goddammit. Stop meddling with my shit!_ I yell to the genie. 

_You would have asked him anyway_ , he responds, none too kindly - prompting me to mentally flip him off. 

Marco reaches for the tube of lotion and holds it up so I can examine the label; it’s some sort of numbing cream for athletes. I laugh at the implication that I could somehow hurt myself doing anything even remotely athletic. The most exercise I ever do is sprint from class to class, and that’s only on days when I wake up late. Which reminds me, _do I have class today?_ I glance at the clock on Marco’s desk: 8:37. Fantastic. _Looks like I won’t be missing English today…._

The sound of a lid popping open alerts me of Marco’s intentions and I watch curiously as he squirts some of the goo into his hands before rubbing them together. Only once he’s gently placed the sticky substance on my back does he decide to answer my question from a few moments ago. 

“He wanted me to have them,” he gets out in one long, jagged breath. 

‘What do you mean?’ I sign, partially because I want Marco to know that I’m making an effort to learn, and partially because the way he’s rubbing lotion into my shoulders feels really, really good and I don’t trust myself enough to say it out loud without moaning. 

“W-well uh, I had some when I was little and-and then dad lost his job and we couldn’t affordthem and Santinojustwantedmetohavethembecausetheymademehappy-” 

“Marco, Marco, hey,” I sit up suddenly, no longer inhibited by the pressing weight of Marco’s hands on my back since they’ve moved to hide his face from my view. The rugburn only protests slightly at the motion of it all, and I silently praise Marco for his impromptu first aid skills. 

I nudge Marco on the shoulder when he continues purposefully avoiding my gaze. He shakes his head again; I huff in irritation. “C’mon, Marco,” I say aloud, taking his hands in mine and ducking my head so we’re eye to eye, whether he likes it or not. 

“Marco, hey, it’s okay,” I tell him again, examining his face as I do. He’s not crying, nor does he look like he will, but he is breathing a little too fast for my comfort level. “Shh, Marco it’s alright, shh….I get it. I get it, okay? You don’t have to explain it to me.” 

A choked noise that sounds like a fork getting caught in the blades of blender emanates from Marco’s throat at the words, so I pull him to me in the best imitation of a hug I can manage with my back still as messed up as it is. Marco wraps his arms around me in turn, careful to avoid the rugburn on my shoulders and the bruises on my hips, and leans his head on my collarbone. My very _naked_ collarbone. _Shit. Shit shit shitshitshit. I can feel him breathing oh my god._

“Erm, Marco?” I say, pulling away gently so I won’t offend him, “C-can I have my shirt back?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, sorry,” Marco frantically pats around the bed looking for the discarded fabric. He locates it a few inches behind him, grabs it, and hands it to me - I gratefully pull it on, peripherally aware that it no longer hurts to move my arms around when I do so. _Must be that numbing shit_ , I think. _Wait a second, numbing?_

‘Hey, Marco,’ I begin signing to get his attention. He looks up at me lazily and rests his chin in his palm. _Uh oh._

“Um….that shit you put on my back; doesn’t it make your skin go numb?” I ask, running a hand through my bed head and wincing as it catches in the phenomenal assortment of tangles. 

‘Yeah, why?’ Marco sits up straighter and his eyes widen. “ _Oh crud._ ” 

Marco realizing his mistake is simultaneously one of the funniest and most cringe-inducing things I’ve ever seen. He’d completely forgotten about the properties of whatever it was he’d rubbed into my back, and, well…. 

“Jean, I can’t feel my face,” he states, very matter of fact. I try not to laugh at his misfortune, but it’s damn hard when only half of the muscles in his face are moving properly to accommodate his speaking. Alright, who am I kidding? I don’t try very hard to keep quiet, and I end up breaking into hysterics when Marco starts poking his own cheek in an attempt to restore feeling to the paralyzed area. 

“Fuck, Marco! You should see yourself right now!” I manage to gasp out between chuckles; he tosses an unappreciative scowl in my direction. At least, he tries to. It kind of turns out as more of a disgruntled eyebrow furrow than a true frown. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re hilarious. Jeez, I restore you to good health, and this is how you repay me? I’m hurt,” Marco says, though his words jumble more than usual. He makes up for it with some very theatric gesticulations, though. 

“Only the best for you, darlin’,” I tell him, throwing in a wink for good measure. 

“Speaking of….,” he says and my heart stops. _It was a joke! IT WAS A JOKE! This is just part of my sarcastic persona, dammit!_

I wait in agonizing silence for Marco to continue, unsure of what to do. The brain genie suggests several plans of escape - one of which includes knocking the boy in front of me out and sprinting for the door - while the more logical part of my head flounders for a way to explain the joke. _It’s sarcasm? We’re not dating? I’m sorry my sense of humor is so fucked up?_

“Speaking of,” Marco repeats. He must have noticed my brain dead expression. “Are you wearing my shirt, babe?” 

Time stops. Marco winks back with a half-articulated smirk. I may even lose consciousness for a second, I don’t know. The only thing I’m acutely aware of is the fabric against my chest, and the smug look on my friend’s face. That is, until it dissolves into a poorly contained grin. 

“Oh, fuck off,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. But my anger doesn’t last long and I find myself laughing alongside my best friend despite my best efforts not to. 

Because when Marco smiles, I have no choice but to smile back. 

. 

.. 

… 

The next few weeks pass without incident. Marco and I go to class, we spend Thursday afternoons lounging around his room, every Saturday we curl up in Marco’s room watching movies and cracking jokes at each other. I get a few more details from Marco about his brother in the days immediately following his return, but they’re brief and he stops discussing it as soon as February gives way to March. 

“They’re having a trial in a few days,” he mentions casually one day, “Mom and Dad won’t let me go.” 

“Why not?” I ask him. We’re just leaving English, I won’t have much time to dance around the whole story if I want to make it to physics on time. 

“They don’t think I can handle it. And….” Marco trails off, eyes trained on the arts building in the distance, easier to see now that the snow has melted and the sky is cleared. I even think I see some leaves starting to come in. 

“And?” I prompt when it’s clear that he’s lost himself in thought. 

“They blame me,” he says simply before walking off, leaving me stunned and wordless in the middle of the sidewalk. The urge to run after him is nearly unbearable, but he’s gone from my line of sight before I can act on it. _Dammit._

Sighing, I turn on my heel and head towards my next class with my head hung and my brain in the clouds. 

. 

.. 

… 

“Ugh, he’s so fucking cryptic, Armin!” I find myself yelling into the dorm days later. My roommate sits staring at a textbook on his desk, not bothering to look up even when I wave my arms above my head in an exasperated motion that’s one part enraged, and two parts overly dramatic. 

“Marco?” he says without looking up from the chemistry equations in front of him. _Damn, I wish I had that kind of focus._

“ _Yes!_ ” I shout back, flinging myself onto my bed face first and banging my head against the pillow. My fluffy Batman blanket gets tangled between my legs, but it’s quickly forgotten in favor of throwing a rather unnecessary temper-tantrum. “I just wanna help him out, for fuck’s sake!” 

Armin hums to prove that he heard what I said, though he doesn’t respond for a few moments. 

“He may just need some time, Jean,” my roommate says, finally looking up from his homework and spinning his desk chair to face me. I huff. 

“But-” 

“Jean,” Armin fixes me with a stern gaze that could rival my mother’s before speaking again, “he’s got a lot going on. Midterms are in two weeks, the play opens seven days from now, and he’s gonna have to head home for spring break. Give. Him. Some. Time.” 

I recoil at the harshness of Armin’s tone. _Shit, I was just trying to help. I know Marco’s got all this shit going on, but….I can help with that right? Does Armin think I’ll just make it worse? Some roommate he turned out to be._

“It’s not like I’m gonna _force him_ to tell me all his secrets, jeez,” I can feel myself getting defensive. I don’t like it. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my muscles tenser than they have any right to be. 

Armin stares at me again. “I know, just be patient. Family stuff….it can be hard,” he says, averting his gaze for once to glare almost angrily at the cuticles he’s picking at. I sit up in bed to face him, the Batman blanket falling to floor as I do. 

“Oh yeah?” I ask, because the way he says it and the amount of care he’s taking to avoid looking at me makes me think there’s more to this story than he’s letting on. 

“Yeah. Y’know, it took Eren years to get over losing his dad. Even longer to get over his mom’s death. Not that Marco’s situation is exactly like that, but I’m just saying, that stuff can take a lot of time,” Armin responds wistfully. _If I keep staring at him, maybe he’ll crack_ …. 

The door to our room suddenly opens with an obnoxious clatter and a gust of wind that no doubt makes my bed head look worse than it already does. Irritated at the sudden interruption, I run my hand through my hair and sit up to glare at whoever it was that so rudely injected himself into the conversation. I end up regretting it almost immediately, because not only is it my least favorite person in this whole school, it’s my least favorite person plus whatever emotional baggage he’s carrying that’s causing him to storm into our dorm with the ferocity of a cornered circus lion. 

“What do you want,” I grumble to the approaching figure, his eyes blazing with enough rage to disguise their usual greenness with a stormy shade of blue. 

“Not having to look at your ugly face would be nice,” Eren snaps back while tossing his backpack onto the floor near Armin’s bed and climbing up the ladder to brood in the top bunk. 

“The feeling is mutual,” I snarl, even though he’s already cocooned himself in the mess of blankets atop the mattress and is probably unable to hear me. 

“Be nice,” Armin calls from where he sits at his desk, back now turned to me in favor of reviewing whatever homework problems he’s got in front of him. _Dammit, Armin. Can’t you just defend me for once?_

I know it’s a futile thought the second it crosses my mind; Armin would rather lose an arm than kick Eren out of our dorm. Especially when he’s this mad. 

Armin, as if sensing my thoughts directed at him, closes the textbook and stands. He shuffles the papers in front of him until they no longer resemble a pile of leaves before moving away from the desk and grabbing hold of the ladder to his left. Soon, he’s lifting himself onto the top bunk and sitting with his legs thrown casually over the side. They dangle precariously, but Armin still kicks them back and forth in quiet contentment. 

The room falls into comfortable silence, the only sound reaching my ears being the slight rustle of fabric as Armin swings his denim clad legs over the edge of the bunk bed. I contemplate picking up the conversation where we left off before Eren stormed in, but the mood has changed enough that I doubt Armin would answer me if I kept asking. 

“What happened,” the blonde says a few seconds later, obviously unaware of my mental dilemma. I assume he’s talking to the fuming body under the blankets and keep my mouth shut. 

“Mmmph,” Eren groans. Armin sighs. I roll my eyes. 

“Eren,” Armin scolds, voice drawn out and almost patronizing in the way it elongates the vowels in the name. 

“ _MMMPH._ ” 

“That bad?” the blonde says casually as he picks at shredded cuticles. 

“Mmm,” the blankets respond. 

“I see. Jean,” Armin averts his gaze from his damaged nails and turns his eyes towards me, “would you mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?” 

I scowl in Armin’s direction. Why should I leave my own room, for fucks sake? Jaeger doesn’t even live here! But the determined set of my roommate’s jaw and the slightly threatening glint in his blue eyes tells me that I don’t exactly have a choice in the matter. I huff, pulling myself out of the comfort of my own bed, and rush towards the door. 

“Yeah, whatever,” I grumble over my shoulder when Armin makes no attempt to stop me and instead focuses all of his attention on the man holding his blankets hostage. His indifference stings for a grand total of about three seconds before it’s replaced with enough irritation to send me running from the scene of the Jaeger-plague and down the stairs until I’m standing outside the dorm building cursing Armin’s name under my breath. 

“Fuck roommates, fuck everything,” I mutter, eyes squinted in concentration and fists balled tight by my sides despite the fact that my feet are carrying me away from the building without my permission. “Fuck it all.” 

_Don’t be such a crybaby_ , the brain genie suddenly pipes up, making himself known after a suspiciously long absence. A cynical smirk begins pulling at my lips at his return. 

_Back so soon? I was beginning to think you’d left me for another man_ , I think back. 

_Shut up_ , he says. I smile wider, but stop once I realize that he’s only made himself known to keep me from doing something to make the state of the BS o’meter worse. Ooops. 

_Stop whining_ , the genie continues, _and get the fuck over yourself. It’s not like you’re friends with either of them_. 

_Not true_ , I tell him indignantly, scowling as my feet carry me farther and farther away from the scene of my betrayal, _I’m friends with Armin_. 

_Sure you are. And I bet you think you’re friends with Marco, too._

The genies words pull some sort of bizarre magic on my body, and before I know it, I’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk with my head hung low and the early March air caressing the skin on my face. I try to breathe it in, to let it fill my lungs until it feels as though I can breathe normally again, but it doesn’t work. Or maybe it’s my lungs that don’t work. Either way, something isn’t working and it’s pissing me off. _Stupid body, stupid roommates, stupid stupid stupid._

_Marco_ is _my friend_ , I think, hoping beyond hope that the brain genie will hear it and drop the issue for once. 

Hoping has never done me much good. 

_Is that why he’s been pushing you away?_ the bastard replies. I can practically hear the cynicism dripping from his lips. 

_He’s not pushing me away_ , I tell him, my feet still frozen to the sidewalk and my fists still curled precariously near my sides, _he just needs some time_. 

_Don’t be stupid. You’ve pushed enough people away by now to know what it looks like._

_Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it stop it._

_You pushed Armin and Eren away, you pushed your mom away once you left for college, you pushed your dad so hard he left for good-_

“Stop,” a voice says, cracking through the still afternoon air like a rusty knife. It takes a minute for me to realize that it’s my own and that it’s breaking free from my strained vocal chords. “Stop,” I repeat again, a little less shaky this time. “Stop it, please.” 

_You push and you push and you push and you expect people to stay by your side-_

“ _Stop_ ,” I practically yell it this time, voice loud and ringing in my ears as it bounces off the empty sidewalks and buildings. Thank god I’m out here by myself. 

The brain genie remains blissfully quiet, maybe realizing that he crossed a line somewhere along the way, maybe realizing that he needs to attend to the BS o’meter before it bursts. Who knows? I don’t, and I can’t bring myself to care as I force lung-fulls of air back into my body. 

_1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8…._ I count to myself, inhaling and exhaling in time with my own chanting. It takes a few minutes, but eventually I’m calm enough to breathe normally and my tunnel vision has receded enough that I can now take in my surroundings; I’m about a block and a half away from Studio 104. _Where the fuck was I going?_ I think to myself, continuing in the direction of the Studio nonetheless. I pause once I’m standing in front of the campy storefront, hand suspended over the door handle while I try to piece together why, exactly, my body drove me here of all places. Fingers somehow wrap themselves around the brassy handle and before I can curse my body for its mutiny, I’m inside the gallery. 

“Undercut?” Someone calls from the very back of the store. 

“Levi,” I reply as casually as I can with my vocal chords still struggling to operate normally. 

“It’s not your day to work,” the man says, finally stepping out from behind a shelf and revealing his petite frame and his handful of cleaning supplies. 

“Yup,” I say, walking past him to the back of the store where I know my sketchpad and canvas will still be stored. I lift up a few boxes and empty pads of paper until I find them, moving the half finished canvas to an unoccupied easel and placing the sketchbook on a nearby stool. Levi watches, feigning curiosity, as I move to set up the acrylic paints Hange keeps back here just for me and resume working on the large canvas in front of me. A low ‘tch’ noise comes from Levi’s pouty lips shortly after, but I ignore it easily, letting myself get pulled into the painting instead of into an argument with the tiny man. 

_Inhale, exhale. More blue over here, this needs to be darker_ , I tell myself as I paint, the mantra repeating itself over and over again until it drowns me completely and I’m pulled under. 

. 

.. 

… 

“This is coming along nicely, Jean,” an androgynous voice says, startling me into full consciousness of my surroundings. 

“Thanks,” I mumble once I’ve located its source: a short brunette circling around me with the ferocity of a war hawk. Bosses are weird like that. 

The thing ‘coming along nicely’ is a painting I’ve been working on for about two weeks straight, as per Hange’s request. They’ve somehow convinced me to spend my hours at work painting instead of actually working; a choice I don’t exactly understand, but definitely not one I’m gonna try and change. I dip my brush into the glob of blue on my palette as I examine my progress. They definitely have a point - the painting is coming along nicely - but I’m ready to be done with it. 

“Why stars?” Hange asks from behind me, pointing at the spread of galaxies and star clusters scattered around the canvas. I laugh at the question, so similar to Marco’s the night I painted his arm with a similar image, yet completely different. 

“I like space,” I tell them simply, because it’s true. It’s not like there’s some deep, philosophical reason for me to enjoy painting stars. I just….like them. 

“You draw it a lot,” my boss says, one hand resting on my shoulder, the other on the corner of my canvas, “space, I mean.” 

I hum in agreement. _Get to the point, Hange._

“Have you considered studying it?” They ask, prompting me to cock my head to the side in thought and lower my brush to the glass of water beside me. _Have I considered studying it? No, not really_. I tell them so. 

“Shame,” Hange says, “I think you’d enjoy it.” I nod in agreement, the wheels turning in my head as I toss the idea around in my brain. Would I enjoy it? Before I can voice my questions, though, the bell over the front door rings and Hange’s focus is lost. I roll my eyes as I’m completely abandoned, but I don’t stop thinking about the suggestion. Not even when I run my brush along the canvas in precise strokes to mimic the background of space. _Would I enjoy it?_

“Jean!” Hange suddenly shouts and I jump, nearly ruining the painting in the process. I scowl over my shoulder at them, but the irritation quickly slips from my face when I notice the boy standing beside my boss. 

“Marco? What are you doing here?” I walk towards him once I’ve put the paints down; he’s wearing that stupid bobble hat again. His face lights up as I step up to where he stands, eyes sparkling jovially at my approaching figure. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Marco says before pulling the bobble hat off his head and stuffing it into his pockets. His hair sticks up in some truly impressive cowlicks, but I manage to avoid running my hands through them to smooth them out. Somehow. 

“Uh. Just came to paint….I guess?” I tell him because truthfully, I’m still not really sure why I’m here right now. I’m not sure why my feet chose to drag me back to work on one of my days off, and I’m not sure why I even chose to stay. “What’s your excuse, Freckles?” 

“Props,” Marco says simply, shrugging his shoulders and cocking his head towards Hange who stands at the counter seemingly oblivious to our conversation. 

“Oh yeah? Well,” I bow dramatically, one arm crossing over my chest and the other behind my back as I bend my knees, “your wish is my command. What can I help you with, sir?” 

Marco chuckles at the silly image I make, biting his lower lip while he laughs. I try not to laugh along with him, but still end up snickering once I’ve stood to my full height to look him in the eye. 

‘Blue roses,’ he signs after the giggles subside and the blush spreading across his cheeks has vanished. 

‘What?’ I sign back because I’m pretty sure all I got out of that series of gestures was ‘ _blue flowers_ ’ and I can’t for the life of me figure out why Marco would come to an art gallery for floral arrangements. 

“Blue roses,” he says again, out loud this time. I tilt my head in confusion so he’ll know I’m still lost as fuck about what he wants. Marco sighs. 

“I need a bouquet of blue roses for the play, only they can’t be real. They have to be pretty durable so someone can throw them around, so I thought, y’know, maybe you guys could help out?” Marco says, rubbing the back of his neck with one freckled hand. _Dorky habits die hard_ , I think when the rubbing does nothing but remind me of the day we met. 

Hange, as if summoned by the spirit of artistic endeavours, suddenly appears at Marco’s side, making him jump. The way their glasses glint in the light while they calmly regard my friend makes me worry, and I immediately step forward to place a hand on Marco’s shoulder in case Hange tries to throw him in the ovens downstairs. 

“Fake flowers, did you say?” they ask, bouncing on the balls of their feet and peering up at Marco through tinted lenses. Marco nods hesitantly, but not before looking back to me for reassurance. 

“I’ve always wanted to try this, oh thank you thank you thank you, Marco-” Hange rambles, though they turn their back to us so Marco can’t possibly know what’s being said. I shake my head sadly when the freckled boy beside me throws me a puzzled look and wait for my boss to return. 

“-paper mache? Or maybe tissue paper and wire? Oh, this is going to be such fun!” They’re saying by the time they get back to us, a pad of paper in their hand and a collection of pens and pencils shoved into their mop of messy brown hair. Marco and I lean away, slightly terrified of the enthusiasm radiating off my boss in practically tangible waves. 

“Uh, I’ll leave that up to you, I guess?” Marco says, though I can tell he’s more than a little scared of Hange right now. 

“Excellent, excellent! You won’t be disappointed, darling. Should I have Jean bring them to you when they’re done?” Hange pulls a bright green pen out of their hair and begins to sketch rapidly on the paper in their hands. 

“Sure,” Marco replies, looking to me for confirmation. I nod back and he smiles before continuing, “I just need them before the end of next week.” 

“What’s the end of next week?” I ask; Marco rolls his eyes at me in mock irritation. 

“The play, nerd. You’ll come, won’t you?” My stomach does an interesting imitation of a barrell roll at the words. _How did I manage to forget? Jesus fucking Christ, Kirschtein, get your shit together._

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him instead of admitting to the woozy feeling in my stomach. 

‘Great, see you tomorrow?’ Marco says as he walks back towards the door to the Studio. He waves to Hange’s retreating form while they meander back into the basement before looking to me for confirmation. I don’t hesitate to respond now that his eyes are on me. 

‘Always,’ I say, watching as Marco smiles one more time and takes the first few steps out the door. 

_Always_ , I sign to myself once he’s gone. _Always_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so nice and I feel so bad getting this chapter done so late when you've all been leaving such great comments and making ART but here it is I'm sorry please accept my apology chapter


	10. Blame It On the Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is an emotional drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for alcohol consumption. And mentions of death. 
> 
> ALSO LOOK AT THE [NICE THING](http://amazingly-rad-trash.tumblr.com/post/156241227809/i-drew-jean-from-beauty-brains-and-batarangs) [FLINK](http://amazingly-rad-trash.tumblr.com) MADE FOR THIS FIC I'M STILL PUMPED ABOUT IT (This chapter is my thank you, by the way)

_“Connie, pour la centième fois, arrête de me demander comment chanter le thème de Rue Sésame en français.”_

“I have no fucking clue what you just said but seriously dude, it can’t be that hard.”

_“Tu es un fléau sur mon existence et je refuse de céder à vos demandes.”_

“Jesus fucking Christ I know you know the words, c’mon man.” 

_“Jamais.”_

_“Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street?_ ” Connie sings in spite of my adamant protesting and I drop my head back against the bed in defeat. We’ve been at this for what feels like hours; Connie asking me stupid shit, me responding with equally stupid shit that only _sounds_ elegant because it’s in French, and neither of us getting any work done whatsoever. 

“No, no I can’t,” I tell him. The only directions I feel like giving Connie right now are to the nearest major intersection so hopefully a speeding trucker can end his stream of constant questions for me. I sigh again when he keeps singing (although that may be too generous of a description, it’s more like howling). 

_How did I even get here?_ I think absentmindedly to drown out Connie’s warbling. I mean, I know I agreed to help him with his French homework, but I didn’t realize helping him meant spending an entire Saturday with the guy arguing about Sesame Street. Although really, who could have foreseen this atrocity? Somewhere, hiding in the darkest recesses of my mind, the brain genie shudders just thinking any of this suffering could have been prevented. 

“Hey, ground control to major Jean,” Connie’s screechy voice snaps me out of the pity party I’d been throwing with the genie in my head. I turn to look him in the eye, scowling.

“What now?” I growl and Connie throws his hands up in sarcastic joy, a broad but insincere smile splitting his face in half. 

“Jesus fuck, _finally_. You were speaking in French for so long I thought I was gonna need subtitles,” the bald kid on the floor yells, waving his arms around for good measure. I’m overcome with a unsettlingly strong urge to deck him in the face, but I can’t bring myself to move from my spot on his bed. My ass has made it’s peace with the pillows and there will be no persuading it to move. 

“Fuck off, Springer,” I tell him, one sock clad foot striking out to hit the menace on the floor in the shoulder. Connie recoils from the hit but grabs my ankle before I can pull away and kick him again; I flail and wiggle in protest, trying not to disturb my throne of pillows. I feel the sock being pulled off of my foot and look down to glare at the perpetrator who holds my ankle above his head like a proud fisherman showing off his catch-of-the-day. Wiggling free proves to be an impossible task if I want to maintain my nest, so I watch in irritated fascination as Connie grabs my limp sock with his free hand, spits in it, then proceeds to put it right back onto my foot. 

“What the fuck!” I yell and finally manage to yank my leg away from Connie’s possessive hands, “that’s fucking disgusting!” I lean down to take the damn thing off and fling it at Connie’s face. The sock connects with the side of his bald head with a dissatisfying _splat!_ before it drops to the floor in a mushy, cotton and saliva heap. 

“Yeah well it’s well deserved, you ass!” Connie throws the sock behind him and it lands in a heap of dirty clothes and food wrappers shoved into the corner of his room. I eye it warily before deciding that I didn’t really need the sock anyway and I’ll be perfectly fine to walk back to my own dorm with one foot bare. Connie can consider the sock and the glob of spit inside it his spoils of war. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean, baldy?” I grumble. The boy on the floor rolls his eyes with over dramatic flare before propping his elbows on the mattress and pointing accusingly at my scowling face. 

“You’ve been a grumpy jerk all day, broseph,” he whines and I get the impression he wants me to spill some dark secret to him about my sour mood. Well sucks for him. I don’t have any deep and mysterious secret to share with him; I’m just an ass. 

“Have not,” I say. The brain genie squints suspiciously at my bold faced lie, but he keeps his sassy trap shut and I pretend he isn’t there to judge me. 

“Um hello? Earth to Jean? This is the first time you’ve spoken to me in the English language in over three hours. I’d say that’s grumpier than usual,” he says, pokes me in the leg with one stubby finger. I don’t dignify him with a response. Maybe I am in a shitty mood, so what? It’s a free country, dammit! I’m allowed to be an ass. 

I notice Connie watching me skeptically as I ignore him, which only makes me want to ignore him harder. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check for any new messages. None. 

“Does your shit mood have anything to do with Marco?” Connie asks hesitantly and I lower the screen of my phone to glare at him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well it’s just,” he starts but scoots back when he realizes he might be in danger sitting so close to my legs, “I mean he left, right? Had to head out to Jinae for a jif? I’m just saying, you seem pretty distraught now that he’s not around.” 

“That’s bullshit,” I seethe, even as I toss the idea around in my head a few times. Marco left yesterday morning, bright and early, without even telling me he was planning on driving out to Jinae. I just woke up Friday morning to my phone buzzing wildly with a series of texts, each shorter and more poorly constructed than the last. 

**From: Marco** Can you take notes for me today in English?

 **From: Marco** I’m driving out to jinae 

**From: Marco** IDK when I’ll be back 

**From: Marco** Sorry it’s so early oh gosh ur not even up are you 

**From: Marco** Sorry I’m trying to txt nd walkk 

**From: Marco** plz water oliver and Twist for me 

I had picked up my phone with a huff and squinted agitatedly at the series of messages. It was only five thirty in the morning, so I’m not sure if I even processed his requests at the time, but records show that I managed to text him back a thumbs up emoji as confirmation. My shitty recollection of the event also tells me I managed to fall back asleep immediately after, because I woke up three hours later with my phone cemented to my cheek and my eyes burning from the early morning wake up. 

After a few minutes of wiping the drool and sweat off my phone screen, I hauled myself out of bed and reread Marco’s texts. I scowled at the screen once I registered his words, and I scowled even deeper at the last text reminding me to water his succulents. What a fucking nerd. I fucking knew he named them something dumb. Fucking _knew it_. 

I had proceeded to go about my morning routine as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I ran to the bathroom to take a shower, I changed clothes right in the middle of the dorm room because Armin wasn’t there to yell at me about public indecency, and I loaded up all my things for class before sprinting out the door. Once I got to English, I proceeded with my usual routine of taking absolutely no notes whatsoever. 

Shadis yelled at us to leave five minutes before we were to be dismissed for the day, tired students letting out a collective grumble of appreciation at being let out early. Around me, the room came to life with dozens of students grabbing their notebooks and coffee mugs before trickling out the door. I followed them. And then I started heading to physics. _And then_ I realized I hadn’t taken any notes for Marco and _shit I was a bad friend. You had one job, ONE FUCKING JOB, KIRSCHTEIN_. 

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk panicking and looking every which way for any students I recognized from class but I had been the last to leave the building and besides, I didn’t know anyone in that class anyway. My shoulders slumped in defeat and I shuffled in the direction of my physics lecture. 

About halfway to the science building, I realized I was only a couple hundred yards away from Marco’s dorm, and I sprinted across the manicured lawn like my life depended on it. I didn’t slow down nearly as much as I should have, but that was okay. The door didn’t break when I careened into it and a few bruises wouldn’t kill me. I pushed the door open and speed walked down the hall until I was just in front of Marco’s room. Cursing, I flipped my backpack over my shoulder and rummaged through its contents with all the grace and stability of a guy having a stroke. _Aha!_

I pulled Marco’s spare key from the depths of my bag, trying not to wince in disgust at the mysterious substances that came out with it. He’d given it to me in case of emergency or Jaeger infestations and I convinced myself this was definitely one of the former. I shoved the spare into the keyhole and the door opened easily. I quickly made my way inside and ran directly towards the succulents I’d come to know - sadly - by name. 

“Oliver,” I remarked to the slightly larger of the two cacti, “Twist. Top of the morning to you,” I was out of breath, and I felt ridiculous addressing desert plants by name, but I did it anyway. Then I reached into my backpack for my water bottle, pulling it free and uncapping it to give the little buggers their daily dose of good ol’ H2O. Unfortunately the Gods had decided they hated me that particular day and instead of releasing a few drops of water into the waiting terrariums, my water bottle decided to drench the poor little plants with the ferocity of Niagara Falls. 

“ _Shit!_ ” I cursed because that was definitely too much water. Desert plants shouldn’t look like they’re swimming, right? “ _Oh shit shit shit fucking shit_.” I plunged my hand into the mason jar Oliver called home and tried to fish some of the water out because surely that much dihydrogen monoxide would kill the little bastard and I wasn’t sure how I could explain that kinda thing to Marco. 

_Hey, Marco?_

_Yeah, Jean?_

_How attached are you to your cactuses?_

_I love them more than life itself. Why?_

_Oh. No reason. Just that they’ve both been cruelly executed by my bloodstained hands._

_Oh. I see._

In my imagination, Marco burst into tears and started flinging the remains of his dead cactuses at my head with surprising accuracy. The chunks hit me in the cheek, the neck, the forehead and stuck there painfully. 

_I’m a murderer!_ I wailed at the pieces of cactuses long deceased scratching at my skin. _Murderer!_

 _Jesus fuck the plants are going to die_ , the brain genie had complained, pulling me free from my fantasy. I looked down at the terrariums I was supposed to take care of, my hands covered in dirt and mud and scrapes from where I’d bumped up against Oliver’s prickles trying to remove the water. 

“Shit shit shit,” I cursed to myself again, pulling my hand back out. It was then that I had an absolutely, Armin-style, brilliant idea. Smiling widely, I placed the two cacti back on the windowsill before reaching up as high as I could to get the window in front of me open. I knew it could - all the windows in these dorms could - they just didn’t make it very easy. 

I pushed on the glass until it popped open just enough for me to reach my hand through the opening and grabbed Oliver and Twist. I smiled at my genius. Grinning like an idiot, I lifted the two glass jars to the opened window and turned them upside down to get rid of the extra water. 

I was still grinning like an idiot when I put the glass terrariums back on the windowsill, completely oblivious to the fact that they were now entirely empty. 

I blinked. 

_That’s funny, shouldn’t there be a plant there?_ My subconscious supplied unhelpfully. I blinked again. 

“Oh my god,” I whispered into the still air of Marco’s room before practically launching myself at the window. I pried it open another few inches until I could properly stick my head through and took in a sharp breath. 

There, on the ground below the window, were the remains of Marco’s beloved, comically named cacti. 

So yeah, maybe I had been kinda grumpy after that little incident and the rotten morning prior to it, but so what? It wasn’t just because Marco _left_. It was because I was a shitty person and a shitty friend and I was in a shitty mood. 

“Are you sure? You’re kinda buggin’ out man,” Connie chimes in unhelpfully, pulling me back to the present and away from the murder scene playing out behind my eyes.

“Positive,” I snap back, feeling awful about the tone after the words had already settled in the air between Connie and I. He draws his mouth into an irritated line and narrows his eyes at me; I wonder if he’ll kick me out of his room for being a jerk. 

“You know what you need?” Connie says; I arch an eyebrow in question and he grins. 

“You need to get _hammered_.” 

.

..

…

Usually when people suggest any form of alcohol consumption I politely decline with a ‘no fucking thank you’ and quietly slip into a beer-coma in the comfort of my own dorm room. It’s not that I dislike alcohol (I go to college, of course I like beer), it’s that I dislike the kind of person I am when I drink. 

The upsetting thing is drunk Jean is practically the same as sober Jean. 

Drunk Jean is loud. Drunk Jean is also very confrontational and very competitive. Drunk Jean drunk himself into a coma after promising Eren Jaeger he could down more tequila shots than he could. Drunk Jean has even less of a filter than sober Jean does. 

Tonight was the grand exception. Tonight was the night drunk Jean came out to play. 

“I’m just saying vampires definitely have blood type preferences,” Connie drawls in a slurred voice from somewhere above me. The couch maybe. 

“Nah, all blood tastes the same I don’t think they give a shit,” Sasha adds and I snort because of fucking course Sasha would see any and all consumable matter as equal as long as she can eat it. I throw my head back and hit her in the shoulder while taking a swig of beer. She lifts one hand from where she lies sprawled like a starfish across Connie’s chest and ruffles a hand through the longer hair on the top of my head. 

“You just say that because if you were a vampire you’d drink every drop of blood you could get your hands - uh, I mean fangs on,” Connie retorts. I hear Sasha huff, letting out a stream of air right against Connie’s chest and the side of my head. I have to wonder why she always ends up conking out across someone’s lap when she gets drunk, but I’m glad it’s Connie this time and not me. 

“Don’t be racist, baldy. All blood is created equal.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.” 

“ _Racist_.” 

“It’s not racist if it’s all the same color,” I add in, earning a hearty smack to the side of my head. 

“Y’all are exclusionist assholes,” Sasha mumbles, grabbing the bottle of liquor from my hands and placing it to her lips. I grumble at the loss of my sweet, sweet ambrosia. 

“Eh we’re just picky, that’s all,” I swipe the bottle back from Sasha and take a satisfying gulp that leaves the back of my throat burning and my face flushing. Shit, it feels nice to be drunk. Tingly. Mmm. Nice. I feel my head starting to loll to the side with giddiness and smile at how little control I have over the action. My thoughts slow, my head blissfully clear - wiped clean by alcohol. 

Oh, and one more thing about drunk Jean: drunk Jean's brain genie is always just as drunk as I am. Sometimes he's even hiding under his desk in an alcohol induced coma, so he can’t do shit. It’s _glorious_. 

“BS,” Sasha mumbles. 

“No, it's true. I'm very selective about whose blood I'll suck,” Connie shoots back, giggling uncontrollably and jostling the girl sprawled out across his chest from side to side. I cackle wildly at the disturbance. 

“And whose dick you'll suck,” I add unhelpfully. Connie whacks me over the head in protest. 

“Don’t spread rumors, Kirschtein,” he says and I hear him take another swig of beer somewhere above me. I look to the bottle in my hand and do likewise, tepid liquid trailing down my throat until Connie decides to pipe up again. “Besides, out of the three of us, I’d say I’m the least likely to suck dick.” 

Sasha and I snort, “oh yeah?” 

“Yeah I mean, Sash, you gave that techie a blowjob the other day so he’d give you his Oreos-”

“It was a worthy exchange.” 

“And Jean is definitely gay for Marco-”

“Excuse me?” I bark with laughter and place the lukewarm bottle of beer by my side so I can turn to face my accuser. My knees shake with tell-tale signs of inebriation, but I manage to drag myself around so Connie’s face is now close enough to my own that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. 

“Dude, don’t tell me you _wouldn’t_ tap that,” Connie says, eyebrows raised. I glare at him with indignation but - of course- the brain genie sees this as a perfect opportunity for one of his brilliant interjections and decides to join the conversation. 

_Marco_ is _pretty attractive_ , genie says, tapping his chin in thought and swaying from side to side; the only indication I have that he’s as out of it as I am. Ah, alcohol. A truly wonderful invention. 

_I guess_ , I think back. The genie in my head cocks an eyebrow and I imagine him nodding at me solemnly with a silent agreement. I nod back. 

“I think,” I say aloud to my two loopy friends, “I need more beer in my system before I can answer that question.” 

.

..

…

“So then this _couch_ , this fucking on fire _monstrosity_ , just comes flying out the window like a goddamn rocket and Marco - Marco’s flipping his _shit_ because this fucking couch just fell like seven stories and it almost hit us and we almost died but like - here’s the best part, okay? - he’s not even that freaked out by the flaming couch a few feet away he’s more c-concerned with the music blasting from the heavens -,” I cut myself off with a laugh that sounds a bit like an asthmatic coughing up a lung, overjoyed to hear Sasha and Connie laughing along with me. 

We’ve somehow found ourselves sprawled along the floor; my hand crushed under Connie’s shoulder and my foot resting casually across Sasha’s stomach. The countless bottles surrounding us are the only real reminders I have of drinking anything - I’m too far gone otherwise to really notice if I’m drunk or not. 

My foot bounces up and down with Sasha’s horrendously loud guffaws, but the alcohol buzzing through my veins like electricity makes it impossible to care. I even find myself enjoying the sensation, and I try to get her laughing again. Of course, the only thing that really comes to mind when I try to conjure up pictures of laughter and happiness is Marco’s smiling face, so I elect to tell another Marco-centric story for her waiting ears. 

“Did I tell you about that time I dared him to eat an entire pizza and he fucking did it?”

“No.”

“He fucking did it.” 

“Oh my Goood,” Connie whines and I have to twist my head around to look at him, “would you shut _up_ about Marco.” I squint at Connie’s bald head in disgust.

Who _doesn’t_ like a good Marco story? This bitch apparently. And I am having none of that.

“No way man, he’s hilarious,” I hiss back, pulling the hand trapped under his shoulder free and slapping him in the gut. 

“Christ, just admit you’re in love with him and spare us from this hell,” he mumbles around a sigh; I find it rather impressive he’s speaking at all given how hard I slapped him. His breath control is a lot better than I thought it was. 

“I’m not love with Marco. I’m in...I’m _in friend_ with Marco,” I say, though the reasoning is fuzzy and even I have a tough time deciphering what exactly I’m trying to say. I think I’m trying to tell Connie that Marco’s just a friend, but that can be pretty hard to do when you’re drunk. 

“ _In friend_ with him?” Sasha snorts, prompting the leg I have stretched across her stomach to jump along with her laughter. I nudge her with my heel. 

“Yeah…,” I hum - eyes sipping shut, “you know like, you’re in love with potato chips, and I’m in friend with Marco.” 

“Right…” 

“I mean, yeah he’s super hot, but we are strictly in friend with each other,” I tell her before I can stop myself. Somewhere, in the very deepest recesses of my mind, I hear the brain genie (who long ago drank himself under his desk) mumbling something about shutting my trap. I elect to ignore him, because really, what’s wrong with saying Marco’s hot? Nothing, that’s what. And if the brain genie wants to yell at me for exposing my inner homo, then he can fuck off into the deepest circle of hell for all I care. His internalized homophobia will not be tolerated tonight. 

I keep talking. “Like he’s got these cute little freckles, and this fucking adorable laugh, and _oh my god_ you should see him without a shirt… Sweet baby Jesus in the manger that kid has some _abs-_ ” 

“Jean-”

“No, fuck off. I’m platonically admiring the bro I am in friend with,” I yell, pulling myself shakily to my feet in a feeble attempt to stand. I end up hanging off the couch with little control over my own legs, but I guess I can’t really expect too much agility with how much beer I’ve had in the past few hours. “He has a very nice ass, also. I am envious of his ass-”

“ _Jean!_ ” 

“Shut up, Sasha!” I shout at the girl spread out on the floor below me. I raise a fist in exaggerated pride, “Marco Bodt, I am in friend with you, and though these hooligans seek to silence me, I will not stand for it,” I kick Sasha in the leg to let her know I’m talking about her. 

Sasha and Connie roll their eyes and I pretend not to see. “I will not be repressed! I am in friend with Marco Bodt and it’s wonderful and you should support me through these trying times.” 

“Jean, seriously, what the fuck,” Connie grumbles, propping himself up on his elbows to look me in the eye. I try to meet his gaze, but fail the second our eyes meet because my lousy noodle legs decide they can no longer hold me up properly and drop me unceremoniously onto the couch I had been using for support. I glare accusingly at the offending limbs. _Slackers_. 

“Dude...how much have you had to drink?” Connie asks me. I squint, trying to recall exactly how much I did have. Four bottles, five? They all seem to run together. I shrug and Connie and Sasha exchange a worried look, standing in unison to approach me on the couch. Cool hands cover my own and I look down to find Sasha carefully removing the beer bottle I wasn’t aware I was holding from my hand. She passes it silent to Connie who chucks it into the recycling bin with ninja-like accuracy before coming to sit beside me on the offensively discolored couch. 

“I think that’s enough for you,” she says quietly, patting me on the arm like I’m some injured bird. I try very hard not to be an asshole and shove her off me, but it’s pretty hard. 

“Totally,” Connie parrots back before sitting on my other side. I, once again, resist the urge to push the both of them away because I’m a good fucking citizen. Also because I don’t have the strength to forcibly remove them right now. But mostly because I’m a decent human being. 

“Pssh, I’m not even that drunk,” I tell them, watching tiredly as they exchange an irritated eye roll on my behalf. 

“Sure you’re not.” 

“‘M not. I’m one hundred percent coherent.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“Only unimaginative people actually get drunk.” 

“Go to sleep, Jean.” 

.

..

…

I wake up a few hours later covered in my own drool, Connie and Sasha spread out on the floor below the couch. They’re talking in quiet tones, occasionally passing a bag of trail mix back and forth between them, munching happily. Every once in awhile Sasha tries to toss a peanut into Connie’s waiting mouth, but she always misses. I wonder why she even tries. It’s not like she can even see Connie that well with how dark the apartment’s become. 

“Wha time’s it?” I rub at the drool drying on my skin and roll into a more upright position. It feels like Eren just hit me over the head with his damn ukulele, but as far as hangovers go it’s pretty tolerable. Unlike Jaeger’s ukulele playing. 

“Like two in the morning,” Connie says, this time chucking a peanut at Sasha’s face for her to catch. It lands in her mouth easily and they share goofy smiles over their small accomplishment. 

“What happened?” I hear myself grumble; when did I decide to talk? 

“Uh you drank like a maniac and went on a tangent about Marco’s ass then fell asleep for two hours and kept us awake with your fucking jackhammer snoring. Thank you for that, by the way,” Connie glares at me and if I was any less inebriated, I might have been a little scared of the malice in his eyes. Thank god for the remaining Heineken buzzing through my veins. 

“Oh. Good for me,” I mumble back and bury myself in the sweet embrace of the blankets piled around me. Sasha must have covered me up at some point during my nap, bless her. I nuzzle into a particularly soft blanket and exhale deeply with sudden exhaustion. Note to future self: don’t nap after drinking like a sailor. 

“No, _not_ good for you,” Sasha pouts, dutifully tossing another blanket over my shoulders in spite of her obvious irritation, “you said some concerning shit while you were out, Jean.” 

I freeze, literally. The blood in my body has suddenly turned to ice and all I can really focus on is how cold I’ve just now become with Sasha’s words. Concerning shit could be a lot of different things...and most of those things I don’t know how to explain if questioned. The brain genie says I can always just laugh it off and say I was having some wacky dream about Marco’s ass or something, but he should know by now that I’m a shit liar. I frantically wait for him to provide a better backup plan while Connie and Sasha stare ominously at the pile of blankets I have become one with. 

“How bout we don’t talk about it?” I shift further and further under the covers, my voice coming out weak and scratchy. 

“How bout we _do_ talk about it?” Connie says. Through some silent telepathy shit that I will never understand, Sasha rushes to his side as if beckoned and they crouch side by side in front of my face, twin glares on their tired faces. 

“Or we could go back to sleep,” I avert my eyes so I won’t crack under their combined curiosity. Damn them and their stupid puppy-dog eyes!

“Jean,” Sasha starts slowly, looks to Connie for reassurance. He shrugs and she continues with a sigh, “you said, um…”

“You talked about your dad,” Connie finishes for her, looking me straight in the eye like I’m supposed to know exactly what I said when I was passed out and explain it to him in a Powerpoint presentation with cheesy effects and musical accompaniment. 

I grunt in response. I may not know exactly what I said but the subject matter is...less than enjoyable. My dad hasn’t been a topic of conversation for quite a while.

“Jean…,” Sasha blinks up at me with her bottom lip worried between her teeth.

“What?! I said something about my dad. So what! I mean I know I don’t talk about him too much or like, ever really, but c’mon guys it’s not-” 

“Jean, you said you killed him,” Connie interrupts. 

Well, then.

I should take a moment to emphasize that I am not, in fact, homicidal, and I’ve never actually killed anyone. Except for Marco’s stupid houseplants, but that’s different. So hearing that I’ve just admitted to murder in my sleep is a little concerning, to say the least. 

Unfortunately, I know exactly why I did it. 

“Look, Con,” I begin, voice shaky and suddenly failing me entirely. I shake my head a little to clear it, wincing both from the sudden influx of bad memories and the pain of moving while having a hangover. I clear my voice again. “Look. It’s not what it sounds like, okay? I didn’t actually kill anyone.”

“But you said-” 

“I don’t care what I said!” I yell and suddenly feel my eyes filling with tears. Is it from the recent intoxication, or is it because I really just haven’t thought about this in a while? I’m hoping for option number one, but the brain genie suddenly returning tells me that is not the case. 

_Shut up. Shut up right now before you make everything worse_ , he demands. I nod sullenly in agreement, knowing he’s right. Of course he’s right. He’s my conscience and he’s seen me break down every single time someone brings up my dad. He’s been there for every sleepless night and Christmas in boarding school and college dorms because going home would just be too painful. The tears I had been trying so fucking hard to fend off finally spring free, and even with this hanover I can feel them making lukewarm tracks down my cheeks and sinking into the fabric of the couch below my head. I pull the covers up defensively and blot at the water dripping down my face. _Stupid, stupid fucking emotions_. 

“Jean, c’mon man. Don’t close up on us now,” Connie sighs, bringing one hand up to squeeze my shoulder through the mountain on blankets. Sasha gives him a look that clearly reads _don’t fucking push him, chrome dome_ , and I start crying harder. I don’t know exactly why. 

_You’ve bottled it up too long_ , the brain genie suggests. I cry even harder at his words, fists shaking in the blanket wrapped around me and eyes scrunched shut to keep the tears as far back as I possibly can. It doesn’t work, and I wipe my nose on my sleeve only to find it covered in snot and tears when I pull away. I cry harder. 

“I’m sorry, s-sorry,” I manage to choke out before I’m suddenly crushed between Sasha and Connie, Sasha cooing comforting words into my hair and Connie giving me the bro hug to end all bro hugs. 

“Jean, you’re still drunk. You can tell us about it in the morning, okay? You don’t have to tell us now,” Sasha murmurs, hot breath fanning out against the side of my head. The brain genie enthusiastically agrees with her idea, jumping up and down in front of the BS o’meter and begging me to agree. I close my eyes and try to follow their advice, but I can’t. I just. Fucking. _Can’t_. There’s too much liquor in my blood and too much emotion in my brain to stop the tidal wave of guilt and word vomit and who know what the fuck else to stop talking right now. 

I shake my head frantically and Sasha shuts up. “N-no, I gotta, I gotta tell you about it.” Sasha squints before resting a hand on my shoulder, trying to shut me up. The look on her face screams with concern and tells me I must be more drunk than I actually feel. I ignore it and keep speaking, voice cracking, tears streaming, nose running. 

“I didn’t - I didn’t kill him, okay? I didn’t kill him. I just messed up, okay? I fucked up real bad, Sash. No, don’t say anything I gotta finish,” I push one uncoordinated hand in the direction of Sasha’s mouth in an attempt to stop her adamant protests. She quiets, but only reluctantly because my hand threatens to gag her if she opens her mouth again. 

“Okay,” she huffs, pushes my hand out of the way. 

“Okay. I didn’t kill him.”

“So you’ve said,” Connie says. 

“I didn’t kill him.” 

“Right, we got that.” 

“I fucked up,” I proclaim, noticing with great dissatisfaction that my body has gone numb with exhaustion, grief, inebriation, who knows what else. The only thing I can actively feel is the stinging of tears behind my eyes and Sasha’s hand rubbing soothing patterns into the top of my foot. 

“How did you fuck up,” one of them asks. My vision blurs so I’m not sure which one it is, but I answer anyway. It doesn’t matter anymore. 

“I-It was snowing a-and nobody should’ve been on the road, shit it was snowing too hard a-and we got in a fight. All of us. And I-I…,” I swallow audibly and the hand on my foot squeezes comfortingly, “I told him to leave us and never come back. I told him everything was his fault and he was only h-hurting us by sticking around...and he listened. Fuck, we were so mad at each other and he got on the fucking road in that stupid fucking storm…” 

Sasha and Connie stare up at me with expectant looks on their faces and eyes full of confused but sincere apology. I have to remind myself that in all the years I’ve known them, I’ve never once mentioned my dad or how he died. 

The room falls appropriately silent for a few moments and I suddenly feel an imaginary weight being lifted from my chest. The brain genie (who’s still mad at me for saying anything to begin with) bangs his head furiously against the BS o’meter, breaking the glass and sending my brain into lockdown in the process. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sasha whispers, I shake my head. 

“I don’t know,” I lie but silently, I’m wondering the exact same thing. The world feels a little lighter now that I’ve said some of the story out loud. If I had told them earlier, gotten this weight off my chest just a little bit sooner, would tonight have hurt less, or more? Would I still break down at the thought of my dad’s car slipping off the road every time it snowed, or would I only think about it in passing? 

I sigh. I’m too tired and too drunk to think about this. The blankets and the couch cushions welcome me with open arms as I flop back into their embrace, tired and sore. I close my eyes and cover myself in their warmth. Behind me I can hear Sasha and Connie mumbling to themselves quietly and I even think I hear Marco’s name somewhere in their subdued muttering, but I don’t care, _can’t_ care, with how worn out I am. 

As I finally slip into drunken sleep, I hear the sounds of a door opening and closing; leaving me to drift off for a second time that night. 

.

..

…

 _Thunk. Thunk thunk. Thunk thunk thunk_. “Jean?” 

I open my eyes and peer into the dark room surrounding me, momentarily confused about where I am and how I got there. The sunlight streaming through the drawn blinds is tinged with pink and purple and I sigh, certain I’ve just woken up way earlier than is actually necessary. _Thunk. Thunk thunk_. 

“Jean?” The voice says again and I draw my gaze away from the light filtering into the room. My eyes land on a figure crouching next to me, strong jaw cast into contrast with the early morning light, eyes dark and nearly impossible to see in the dim morning gloom. 

“Marco?” I croak, absently wondering why my voice sounds like I just smoked two packs of cigarettes. I’m a little more confused why Marco is here (wherever the fuck here is) and not in Jinae like he’s supposed to be though, so I try to preoccupy myself with that. I poke him in the shoulder so he’ll know I’m talking to him, since he probably can’t see my lips.

“Connie and Sasha texted me,” he whispers back in explanation and I’m suddenly drowning in a tidal wave of memories from the night before. _Shit_. 

“Y-you didn’t have to come back,” I say, vaguely aware of Marco squinting in front of me. Right, he totally can’t see me. Slowly, and with absolutely no coordination, I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and procure my phone, flipping on the flashlight and wincing at the sudden harshness of the light flooding the room. My eyes scream in protest. 

“Why aren’t you in Jinae?” I hiss now that Marco can see me. He gives me a small smile. 

“It sounded like I was needed here,” he chuckles softly before dragging his eyes across my face and letting out a soft snort, “you look terrible.” 

“Thanks, I feel terrible,” I say, smiling just a bit in spite of myself. Marco beams back at me, freckles disappearing into the creases around his eyes. He suddenly raises his hands in front of his face and makes a few gestures; my brain takes an embarrassingly long time to interpret them. 

‘Join you?’ he asks, pointing to the couch. I nod and scoot as far back as I can in the space available. Marco hoists himself up until we’re lying chest to chest and pulls one of the blankets around himself. ‘Thanks,’ he signs before mumbling sleepily, “it was a long drive. I’m kinda tired.” I nod and toss another blanket over him. 

“You didn’t have to come back,” I look him in the eyes. Marco rolls his eyes in return, buries his head in the crook of my neck, and exhales deeply. 

“Of course I did,” he replies, so casual and sure of himself, “you would’ve done the same thing.” I sigh and bring my arms so I can give him an awkwardly emotionally hug, pulling him as close as I can and mumbling a scratchy _thank you_ into his hair. Marco nods in understanding, getting the message despite not actually hearing it. 

“Go to sleep, Jean,” he says. I nod and let my eyes slip closed, eager to comply and put this God-awful night behind me. 

As I wait for sleep to greet me once again, I remind myself that I’ll have to deal with all of this later, and wince. That’s gonna fucking suck. Suddenly Marco lets out a tired sigh against my neck, and I smile in spite of myself. Tomorrow’s gonna suck. But it’ll suck a little less now that Marco’s here. 

I smile, eyes still blissfully closed, and pull Marco into a tight embrace - comforted by his warmth - and feel myself drift back to sleep once again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God this took for-freaking-ever and I don't even know why. I'm sorry.


	11. These Are My Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean tells the truth. About a lot of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha I bet you all thought I was dead  
> Nah I just didn't feel like writing for a while but then JMGE 2017 happened and my love for writing was renewed  
> This chapter was really really emotionally draining to write, but also really important and really fun. Prepare for angst!
> 
> MINOR CHARACTER DEATH  
> (not graphic or described, but just in case. Be careful)

As it turns out, _majorly sucking_ doesn’t even begin to adequately describe the way things go once I wake up the next day. At first, it’s just the godawful feeling of being hungover that sucks. The dry mouth, the pounding headache, the light sensitivity that makes me squint at the sunshine streaming through the window with pure disdain. Then it’s the uncomfortable feeling of falling asleep wrapped up in layers of blankets and sweating through your clothes like you’ve just run a marathon. I grumble and try to push the blankets off me, fully intent on escaping the heat trapped underneath them, but get stuck halfway through. I glance down and notice Marco’s hand draped almost casually over my waist. He tightens his grip minutely in his sleep, keeping me from my desired escape. I try very, _very_ hard to pry his arm off without waking him.

“Jean,” he grumbles. Mission failed.

‘Marco,’ I sign back to him, which is a little tricky seeing as he’s spooning me with aggressive intensity and probably can’t see me holding my hand in the air when his forehead is resting between my shoulderblades. By some miracle, he seems to realize I’m trying to sign at him and raises his head to watch me spell his name a second time. M-A-R-C-O, the letters come more smoothly now, less jerky than when I first tried finger-spelling over my shoulder, but still incredibly awkward.

“Wher’you goin,” Marco mumbles and I try not to dwell on his breath fanning out where his lips practically meet my shoulders. I scoff instead and push his arm away with a little more intensity this time. It really is starting to get intolerably hot underneath the blankets, sorry, Marco.

‘Home’, I tell him, taking in the room which I am now able to identify as Connie’s apartment. Beer bottles are literally spilling out of the recycling bin in the corner in a crude mimicry of Heineken-Mount-Everest. There is a discarded bag of trail mix laying half-eaten on the floor. The apartment owner and his friend are nowhere in sight.

“Later,” Marco replies, finally dragging himself into a sitting position at my side. He sways back and forth like a pendulum before finally leaning almost all his weight on my shoulder with a somewhat contented sigh. I pat him awkwardly on the head because what else am I gonna do? Push him off? Nah, man. I can afford to be a little bit gay just this once.

‘Need to go home,’ I reply. It’s weird, watching Marco from this angle as he studies the sloppy motions of my hands. It’s weird seeing his eyelashes flutter tiredly and his nose crinkle while he focuses on my words. It’s weird...but not _entirely_ unwelcome. Nope. It’s not weird that I noticed the way his nose crinkles more to the left than the right either. Not one bit. 

Marco sighs. “No. You gotta explain yourself first, mister,” his voice is slurred more than usual by the clutches of sleep still clinging to him. A few grumbled curses escape him as he pulls himself away and faces me head-on, sitting cross-legged on the couch and waiting for me to face him in turn. I do so very cautiously. Also very ungracefully, because the blankets are still clinging to my legs and it’s fucking hard to move around with five pounds of blankets wrapped around your ankles, okay?

‘I don’t understand,’ I sign bashfully. I refuse to look Marco in the face because he’ll probably look disappointed in me for deflecting my feelings again. 

“Yes, you do. Jean. Come on. The sooner you tell me what’s going on, the sooner we can go back to sleep or take a shower or get breakfast,” I see him cross his arms over his chest grumpily. _Wait, what time is it?_

“It’s six in the morning,” Marco replies like he knew I was about to ask. Damn this kid and his possibly psychic abilities. _Maybe he gave up his hearing for like, ESP or something?_ “Stop deflecting.” That makes me wiggle uncomfortably on the couch, trying to look anywhere that doesn’t have Marco pouting disappointedly at me in sight. All I end up seeing is the remains of last night. I know there will be no escape with the evidence scattered around us. I sigh. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” my voice comes out as more of a whimper than I’d care to admit, but I find solace in the fact that Marco can’t hear the way it squeaks and breaks when all he can do is see the words I’m trying so desperately to form. A freckled hand finds its way onto my knee and squeezes reassuringly until I look back up at its owner.

“How about you tell me why Connie and Sasha called me at two in the morning scared out of their minds for your safety?” He says softly, squeezing again and staring at me expectantly. His disappointed pout has been replaced with an obnoxiously adorable one that screams _begging puppy_. I’m not so sure I prefer this one to his disappointed frown.

“They were overreacting,” I try to laugh. It sounds fake as hell.

“Please work with me here, Jean. I want to help you,” Marco pleads, turning those big puppy-dog eyes up to maximum adorable-ness and leaning closer. “Please, Jean. You have to know that we’re here to support you no matter what!”

“T-they just heard me say some things in my sleep,” I relent to him, because really, how could I refuse those big brown eyes? Marco leans even closer as if to prompt me into a full confession. “I-I guess I talked about my Dad or something while I was out and they didn’t - uh they didn’t take it too well?” Marco smiles softly, proud at himself for having weaseled the information out of me.

‘What about your dad?’ he asks.

“I-I said - said. I said I k-killed him?” it has become increasingly hard not to rush my words together and the confession almost comes out as ‘ISAIDIKILLEDHIM’ but I have to pronounce everything clearly or else Marco will just ask me to repeat it again. I’d rather not.

Marco (bless his soul) does not change his expression or storm off despite me admitting this pretty damning information to him. “What makes you say that?” he asks instead. 

_Oh boy. Here it is. Here we go. The time is now. This is the end. Goodbye cruel, cruel world._

I take one last breath to calm myself. Then, I take the plunge.

I tell Marco everything. 

.

..

…

_It was snowing. Huge, puffy flakes laden with excess moisture spinning faster and faster as the wind picked up and settled back down. They landed in mountainous heaps along tree branches and rooftops, settling in alongside their camarades, piling ever higher. I watched in mock fascination as the flakes fluttered past the living room window. I was more focused on the road beyond than the snow itself, anyway._

_“Jean_ , aide-moi. _We need to make dinner before your father gets home,” my mom placated. I huffed and glared out the window harder, as if that would make Dad’s car round the corner any faster._

_“Why? I thought you were mad at him,” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my tiny chest._

“Oui. Je suis…,” _she trailed off, shaking her head sadly before switching back into English. She really only spoke French when she was asking me to do something for her. “I am mad. I am very mad. But we’re still going to have dinner as a family, no matter how I feel about your father at the moment.”_

_“But Maman,” I whined. “I’m mad at him too!” I still did not look away from the window; eagerly awaiting the flash of headlights that would announce my father’s arrival just so I could give him a piece of my mind._

_“I know,_ mon petit,” _Mother came up behind me and placed a soothing hand along my shoulder, rubbing it back and forth to calm me. I grumbled, but welcomed the comfort. Anything to keep me from bursting into tears or screaming into my hands._

_“It’s not fair, Maman. He - he can’t leave us like this!” I finally gave in and turned to hug my mother fiercely. She smoothed back the tuft of hair at the top of my head that just wouldn’t stay down and hummed sadly. I buried my face in the wool of her sweater, breathed in the slightly stale scent of cinnamon she seemed to carry with her everywhere. I did not let myself cry._

_“I know, I know,” she cooed. She kept soothing her hand over that one tuft of hair, so I guessed it_ really _wasn’t going down this time. “But, come. We can cook - keep your mind off things you shouldn’t be concerned with for just a little while more.” I nodded and let her pick me up from the loveseat in front of the window. Any other day I would have protested how she lifted me and tucked my head into her shoulder like I was still a baby, but not then. I snuggled closer._

_My mother finally placed me down in the kitchen, shooing me towards the sink so I could wash my hands. She began mixing together flour and oil in a small saucepan while she waited for me to finish cleaning my hands - then she scolded me for not drying them off properly, and sent me back to wash them again. By the time I was finally able to help her, she was already adding butter and milk to the concoction in the pan. I dragged the stepping stool my mom had bought just for me and my stubby legs and hopped on top, peering at the goo curiously._

_“What are you making?” It looked like white paste, but it smelled really good, so I tried sticking my finger in the pan to get a taste. Maman slapped my hand away with a wooden spoon and scowled, pretending to be upset._

_“Your favorite,” she stirred the white gooey stuff and let it drip off her spoon._

_“Macaroni and cheese?”_

“Oui.” 

_“But there’s no cheese in it,” I observed. My mother reached to the side and handed me a block of cheese along with a cheese grater._

_“Hold it here,” she said, moving my hands to the right spot and rubbing the block of cheese along the grates. Shreds of cheddar landed in the goop in the pan, reminding me of snowflakes. Big, yellow snowflakes. “And keep going until I tell you to stop,_ comprendre?” _I nodded and went crazy, shredding the cheese to my heart’s content. After a while, my mother told me to stop and took back the cheese and the grater, pushing them aside and reaching for a pot of noodles sitting on the stove. She handed them to me and asked me to keep the pot still as she drizzled the cheese-goop over them. I got to stir the goop into the noodles because she said I’d been good._

_“Now we will shred some more cheese on top of it and -” my mother was cut off by the sound of the front door opening harshly and the keys being tossed haphazardly onto the coffee table. Maman noticed my scowl and held me close to her, waiting for my father to finally make his way into the kitchen._

_When he stepped in he was covered in a fine layer of snow and he still had his winter coat on, despite the warmth blasting from the stove top and the heaters. He smiled broadly and stepped forward, flinging his coat to the side and taking in a huge lungfull of macaroni-and-cheese scented air._

_“Mmm smells delicious in here” Dad asked, coming forward as if to give Maman a kiss. He recoiled when she made no sign of kissing him back. “Bea? Jeanbo? What’s wrong?” I pressed my face into my mother’s sweater, equally enraged and saddened that he had chosen to use such intimate terms of endearment when he was hurting us both so much._ Just call her Béatrice. Just call me Jean, _I thought._

“Pourquoi êtes vous silencieux?” _he tried again in French, probably trying to appeal to Maman since it was her first language and all._

_“David,” my mom’s voice was barely a whisper. But I heard her, snuggled into her sweater, and Dad heard her, standing a few feet away. The pot of macaroni sat untouched between them._

_“Béatrice, I don’t understand what’s going on. Why are you both so quiet?” he stepped closer and Maman squeezed me closer to her side._

“I do not want to have this discussion in front of Jean,” she whispered, which I thought was kinda dumb because I was right there and could totally hear her. She leaned down and whispered - this time just to me - “why don’t you grab a bowl of macaroni and eat in your room tonight, mon petit?” _I shook my head._

_“Bea. Please tell me what’s going on,” Dad reached for her again._

_“No, David. Not in front of our son.”_

_“Just tell me what’s wrong!”_

_“Not in front of Jean!”_

_“BEA-”_

_“You left us.” Maman and Dad whipped around to stare at me like I’d just slapped them both across the face. Maman’s eyes filled with tears and she pulled me even closer, which shouldn’t have been physically possible, but she was damn strong and I wasn’t gonna protest when my eyes were filling up with tears._

_“Wha-?”_

_“You left us,” I repeated, sniffling. “You left us for a_ whole week, _Dad. And you didn’t tell us why, or where you were going, or - or -or…” I started sobbing. So did my mother. “We didn’t know if you were okay or not until you called this morning,” she adds on, the week’s worth of anxiety and worry finally crashing down and crushing us beneath its weight._

_“Well maybe I just needed some time to think for myself. Didn’t that ever occur to either of you?”_

“NO!” _I screeched, bringing my fists to my temples and banging them against my skull to drown him out. “You left us! You left us alone and we needed you! We needed you, Dad!” Maman tried pulling my fists away from my head, gripping my wrists and holding them to her heart instead. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed._

_“Sometimes a man just needs his space,” he tried to tell me; I shook my head and buried my nose in Maman’s sweater._

_“You’ve done this before, David. This is just the first time you walked out without an explanation,” she whispers, pulls me even closer. “We thought...we thought you walked out on us. Permanently.” Dad had the decency to look bashful about that, at the very least. He rubbed his neck nervously as we sobbed in front of him._

_“How ‘bout we talk about this some more after a nice dinner of macaroni and cheese. What do you say, Jeanbo?” Dad reached to rub my hair affectionately but I pushed his hand away with a huff. My vision was tinged with red - both from the crying and the absolutely, all-consuming rage I felt towards my father. Did he know? Did he know we spent a whole week worried sick that he’d gotten himself killed? Did he know that Maman laid awake every night sniffling into her pillow because she thought he might be having an affair? Did he know that I spent every waking minute glued to the front window, waiting to see his headlights shining at the end of the driveway?_

_“NO!” I screamed again; Dad recoiled. “You_ hurt us, 

_“Jeanbo, I-”_

_“Leave,” I seethed. Maman tried to pull me back but I wasn’t gonna let her. I was gonna give Dad a piece of my mind. I was gonna tell him just how much he hurt us this time around._

_“Jean-”_

_“Maman’s cried every night because of you._ I’ve _cried every night because of you. We don’t want you hurting us like this anymore, Dad.”_

_“Bea, help me ou-”_

_“Get out.” I pushed him right in the middle of his chest, which was a stretch for me since I was kinda short for my age and he was kinda tall. “Get out and don’t come back. We don’t need you anymore. We don’t - we don’t need you here anymore!” Dad stumbled back and stared down at me incredulously. He audibly gulped, turning a placating look to my mother, but she turned away, a small frown on her lips._

_“A-alright. I’ll give you two some time to cool off. I can see you need some time to...think things over,” he finally relented. Then he turned, grabbed his jacket, and left. After a few moments we heard the car engine revving. He was gone._

.

..

…

I stop talking and take a massive gulp of air to try and get my bearings again. I’m still in Connie’s apartment. Marco is still sitting in front of me, looking a little bit tired and a little bit heartbroken, but otherwise the same as he always looks. It’s a very small comfort, but a welcome one. I run my thumb over the freckles on the back of his hand - which I didn’t realize I was even holding, oops - and relish in the familiarity.

“Jean? Do you need to stop?” the freckled hand squeezes my own minutely, grounding me, always grounding me.

“Heh. Nah,” I use the heel of my other hand to rub away the tears collecting in the corners of my eyes. When did those get there? Doesn’t matter. “I’m almost done anyway.” Marco nods and gestures for me to go on. ‘Keep talking,’ he says, eyes warm and sympathetic.

I keep talking. 

.

..

…

_Maman and I spent the rest of the night curled in each other’s arms and eating macaroni and cheese. We didn’t talk to each other, but that was okay. There wasn’t a whole lot I could say, anyway. At some point during the evening I fell asleep on top of my mom while she fell asleep against the arm of the couch, the nine o’clock news lulling us both into slumber._

_I woke up hours later, disoriented and groggy. My eyes were heavy and sore, crusty around the edges from crying. A pounding headache yelled at me to drink some water to replace the tears I’d shed._ Is that what woke me up? _I wondered_. No. No, Maman’s awake, too. 

_We both jerked at the chirping of a cell phone buried somewhere in the couch cushions and we scramble to find it and shut it up. I was the first to find it, but I handed it to Maman because it was hers, not mine, and I wasn’t supposed to answer the phone if I didn’t know who it was. Maman grabbed it and flipped it open, glaring at the time blinking neon on the screen. 4:34 A.M._

_“H-hello?” She sounded awful. I probably sounded worse. “Yes, speaking.”_

_There was a long pause as Maman listened to whatever the caller was saying. I didn’t lean closer because she told me eavesdropping was rude, but finally pressed myself against the phone when I saw my mother’s face fall. Her hand covered her mouth and she started crying again - which shouldn’t have possible for either of us since we’d spent half the night sobbing already._

_“There must be a mistake,” she stated, voice scratchy. There was some shuffling on the other line but I couldn’t make out any words._

_“Maman…?” Mother held up a hand to silence me while she talked. I swallowed hard, suddenly scared._

_“Y-yes. I understand. We’ll be right over,” she paused to listen to the response. “How bad is it?” Another pause. “Is there a lot of...you know…” A pause as my mom covered her mouth with her hand and whispered into the receiver. It sounded like she said ‘blood’, so I let out a tiny whimper to let her know I was getting scared. She ran a hand through my hair sadly._

_“R-right. Yes. I won’t bring him. I understand. I-I’ll be over as soon as I find someone to watch him while I’m out. Thank you for alerting me,” Maman tried to hang up but her hands were shaking so I closed the flip-phone for her. She was still crying and I was still scared._

_“Maman?” I held her hands. She squeezed them tight, almost painfully so, and finally met my gaze._

_“I have to go now,_ mon petit,” _she sighed, moving as if she was going to get up from the couch. I didn’t want her to go, so I jumped on her lap and begged her to tell me what was wrong._

_“Wh-where are you going? Y-you’re - you’re not leaving me too, a-are you?” I sobbed. She hugged me close; I tried breathing in the stale cinnamon scent to calm myself, but all I could think about was never smelling it again if Maman decided to leave alongside Dad._

_“No, no, of course not,_ chéri. _T-there’s been a terrible accident and I must go. I will be back soon, darling. I’m not leaving you forever,” she shushed me, soothing one hand up and down my back. I nodded and let her get up, but only after several more promises to return and a few more hugs._

_I heard my mother on the phone again, talking to a friend. She hung up after a few minutes, apologizing profusely to whoever was on the other line, and stood in front of me. I still hadn’t moved from my place on the couch._

“Mon petit? _Do you remember Catarine? Our neighbor?” Of course I remembered Catarine. She always gave me snickerdoodles when we saw her and she had a dog named Francisco who liked to jump all over me. I nodded yes. “Good, that’s good,_ chéri. _Catarine is going to come over and watch you while I’m gone, understand?” I nodded again. “Good, good. She will be here any minute now, you let her in the house, okay?” Another nod. Maman looked down at me sadly, teary eyes. She knelt down and gave me a kiss on each cheek before she left._

_Catarine came over about ten minutes after that, but I didn’t really acknowledge her presence since I was more concerned with trying to figure out why my mother had to leave. I tried to weasel information out of my temporary babysitter by fluttering my eyelashes at her and pouting. Catrine proved to be an impossible fortress that no amount of pleading would break._

_I still spent the rest of the day trying though, up until Maman finally returned sometime in the afternoon._

_“Maman!” I leapt into her arms. She was crying again; I wondered if she’d ever actually stopped. “What was wrong? Please tell me? Please?_ J’ai peur, s'il vous plaît, Maman, s'il vous plaît! Dîtes-moi, je dois savoir!” 

_“Jean...your father,” she stopped talking to let out a choked sob. I begged with her a little more to keep talking._

_“Jean, your father has passed away.”_

.

..

…

“We had the funeral two days later. It was closed-casket….Maman told me it was better that way. When I asked why, she told me it was because the body was too broken and Dad wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like that. He’d….well, he died driving away from our house that night,” I tried really hard to fight the sob I could feel building in my chest. Marco didn’t need to see me crying, I was a man, dammit! I could do this. No tears this time.

“His car slipped of the road and he hit a pole. Or, at least that’s what they told me? It might have been more gruesome, and they just sugar-coated it because I was ten, but I don’t know. It was a car crash though. I saw the car later, when they towed it back to our house after a few days. The whole front end was crumpled up, li-like when you step on an empty soda can.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, finally done with my story, expecting Marco to speak up about as much as I expect him to just shut up and hug me. I don’t know which I would prefer, but a hug sounds pretty good right about now and I feel like revealing your childhood traumas is essentially a coupon for a free hug, but I digress. 

_You’re deflecting_ , the genie says. He had been silent for a long while before then, so this was definitely not a welcome interjection. 

_It’s what I’m best at_ , I tell him. _Now scram._

_Marco will listen, you know_ , the genie replies casually, like he’s commenting on a hangnail or the weather. I flick my gaze back up to Marco to find him in the exact same position as when I first started my story. I sigh, and choose to agree with the brain genie this one time.

“S-so I guess that’s what I talked about in my sleep...I guess I can see why it would concern Connie and Sasha…” I say. Marco squints a little and shifts his body closer to mine - just until our knees touch.

“Jean,” he lifts one hand to cup my cheek and I can’t tell if he does it because he wants to comfort me or if he knows I’ll just try and look away and he’s taking preemptive measures to make sure I don’t. “You know what happened that night wasn’t your fault, don’t you?”

My first instinct is to fling an overly cocky response right back at him. Something along the lines of, _of course I know that, I’m not dumb!_ But Marco would see through that like cellophane.

“I-I guess...it’s just that he wouldn’t have been on the road if I hadn’t told him all that stuff and I was so awful to h-him,” dammit. I can feel the tears welling up again. I command the brain genie to shut the emotion switch in my brain off; he ignores me.

“Jean, listen to me. None of that is your fault. You were a kid, and you were upset, and you had every right to be. No one can blame you for saying the things you said,” Marco says, “and _absolutely no one_ can blame you for what happened to your father. The weather was bad, it was an accident. You aren’t at fault for that whatsoever. Do you understand me?” Marco presses his hand against my cheek a little to keep my attention. I lean unconsciously into the warmth radiating from his palm and I nod in understanding. Because I do. I really, really do. The logical part of my brain understands that I couldn’t have made my father stay and it knows damn well that I wasn’t the one driving that car, nor was I the one making it snow so damn much. It’s the _emotional_ part of my brain, the part I kept trying to repress, that doesn’t understand. That part of my brain yells and yells and _yells_ about how my words made Dad leave and my actions made him drive on that icy road in the middle of a blizzard. Most days the brain genie and I keep this part of my brain under lock and key, beating back any escaped thoughts with a figurative baseball bat made of sarcasm and self-deprecation until it shuts itself back up. But some days it gets loose, and it’s a fucking nightmare cleaning up the mess it makes in the brain genie’s office.

It’s tiring. It’s so, so fucking tiring keeping it locked up.

I don’t really want to be tired anymore.

“M-marco?” I stutter. It sounds whiny in my ears.

‘Yes, Jean?’ he signs back. 

‘I think I need help,’ I sign back to him, because my voice has suddenly failed me and now I’m crying and _oh God Marco is going to see how fucking awful I look when I cry I’m such an ugly crier, fuck!_ I start sobbing uncontrollably and Marco, beautiful, wonderful Marco, pulls me into a hug that feels like home and happiness and sunshine all in one.

“I’m here,” he says - he soothes his hand up and down my back just like my mother would if she were here and that makes me cry a little harder. “I’ll always be here for you, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod and rub my snot and tears all over Marco’s shirt. I will have to apologize for that later, but for now I just unwrap one of my arms from Marco’s waist and bring it to my lips, flicking it outwards, palm up. _Thank you._

“Don’t _thank me!_ You haven’t even stopped crying yet! I can’t let you thank me when I’ve so clearly lagged behind in my friend-responsibilities!” He yelps and he just sounds so fucking affronted, like I’ve insulted his whole family or something, that I can’t help myself from laughing. It sounds ugly, and it’s snotty and gross, but now Marco’s laughing along with me. So it’s okay.

We cling to each other, all snot and giggles and morning breath, for an indeterminate amount of time. When I finally stop crying, Marco pulls away to look me in the eye.

“How about we take a shower, and get some breakfast?” He suggests lightly, like he’s afraid of scaring me off. 

‘Okay. But I get to shower first,’ I tell him. He laughs and nods, so I make to get up from the couch. 

“Jean?” he says, which stops me from getting up and walking back to the dorms. I look at him expectantly. “When you said you needed help...did you mean just from friends...or…” Marco nervously rubs at the back of his neck and I’m so fucking used to seeing it at this point that I just find it endearing now. 

‘Yeah?’

“Did you mean from friends...or did you want to talk to someone? L-like a counsellor or something? Not that you have to, I just thought maybe it’d be nice to talk to someone with more experience and-”

‘What do you think?’ I cut him off by signing back to him. Marco watches my hands move around then lifts his gaze to meet my own. “I trust your opinion, Marco. What do you think I should do?” 

Marco rubs more at the back of his neck before answering confidently. “I think you should see someone. A grief counsellor, maybe. Someone who can help you out and actually knows what they’re doing. We’re your friends, so of course we’ll do our best to support you, but we’re not licensed therapists. Sometimes you need someone like that to talk to...to help you process.” 

I nod back without a moment of hesitation. ‘Okay. Come with me?’

‘Of course I’ll come with you,’ Marco signs, beaming happily. ‘Anything you want.’ 

‘And you’ll help find a c-o-u-n-s-e-l-l-o-r?’ I have to fingerspell because I don’t know the sign for counsellor. It’s never really come up in conversation before now. Marco chuckles and demonstrates the word for me, splaying his fingers out over one fist then adding the modifier for ‘person.’ I practice a few times and Marco gives me a thumbs up when I get it down.

‘Yes, we’ll find a counsellor together,’ he tells me. I smile brightly, no longer teary-eyed.

“Can I say thank you now?” I ask. Marco laughs merrily, throws his head back and smiles like I just handed him the goddamn sun.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he giggles.

“Yeah, well too bad. You’re getting a thank you whether you want one or not.” I huff, then repeat the sign from earlier. ‘Thank you.’ Marco smiles even brighter. 

“Anytime, Jean.”

.

..

…

Marco and I spend the rest of that Saturday looking for counsellors on campus (after a long shower and a breakfast of waffles and bacon from the dining hall, of course) which is hard because there are so many of them. We go through each one and check their specialties until we finally decide on some woman named Carla who does both grief counselling as well as general therapy. Her picture makes her seem pretty nice. Marco sits by my side while I make the phone call and set up my appointment. He smiles encouragingly when she tells me I can come in on Tuesday after class and I pass the information along to him via sign language. He practically tackles me by the time I’ve hung up.

“I’m so proud of you, Jean!” He cheers, right in my ear. I wonder if he knows how loud he can be sometimes but he probably has no clue. That’s okay, I don’t mind. 

‘Thanks,’ I say once he pulls away. I try not to stare too hard at the bunch of exposed flesh left uncovered by the too-tight shirt I’d leant him after our showers. He keeps pulling it down to try and cover it up.

“Guess I should head back to my own dorm and get my own clothes, huh?” He says when he catches me totally not-glaring at his stomach. 

“U-uh yeah, I guess so,” I stutter. Smooth, Jean. Good cover.

“I’ll get these back to you in English on Monday?” I nod stupidly and Marco gets up from his seat on my bed. He starts walking away and something about that just feels awful so I leap up and grab his wrist. Marco turns to me expectantly, but I have come to realize that I had no real plan in this, so I just gape like a fish for a couple seconds until something finally pops into my mind. 

“Why’d you come back?” I ask but backpedal almost immediately after the words leave my mouth because Marco looks almost… _hurt_ that I’d ask him something like that. “N-not that I don’t want you here! I just...I thought you were heading out to Jinae for a while and I wanted to make sure everything was alright and you didn’t just leave because Connie and Sasha texted you-”

‘Jean,’ he cuts me off mid-ramble.

“Sorry. Just worried is all,” I shrug my shoulders and finally let go of Marco’s wrist. I hadn’t even realized I was still holding it.

“I came back because Connie and Sasha texted me _but_ ,” he lifts a hand when I start to protest. I shut my mouth and mutter some curses under my breath. “ _But_ I probably wouldn’t have been able to stay much longer anyway.”

‘Why not?’

“I was originally gonna go and stay for Santino’s trial...but my parents didn’t like that idea and Mía told me to go back since the play’s so close and I need to keep my grades up for that scholarship anyway, so…” He trails off, a little wistful. He tries to cover it up with a smile, but it doesn’t read his eyes and he looks guarded. “Besides, there’s not much I could’ve done sitting in the stands at my brother’s trial anyway, right?”

“I guess…” I look away nervously. Marco seems to pick up on my hesitation and brings me in for another hug.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles softly into my hair. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” Then, to my never-ending surprise, he pulls back just a few inches to give me a smile, presses a feather-light kiss to my cheek, and leaves. 

I am left standing in the middle of my dorm, completely baffled and utterly red faced, trying to process the fact that Marco just kissed me. Only on the cheek, but still. A kiss is a kiss and I am evidently not as straight as I thought I was because I definitely did not dislike it. 

_Okay, brain genie. Help me process here_ , I think, pacing my room as I imagine the brain genie pacing in his own office. 

_Marco just kissed you, dumbass_ , the genie says.

_Yeah no shit_ , I roll my eyes. 

_He probably likes you_ , he supplies.

_Or it’s a cultural thing_ , I think back. 

_He’s fucking American._

__

_His mom isn’t._

__

This continues on for quite some time. The brain genie keeps bringing up evidence of how much Marco must like me, while I come up with every possible excuse I can to shut that shit right down. Marco held my hand? He was scared. Marco smiled at me like I was the goddamn second coming of Christ? That’s just how he is. Marco cried on my shoulder and _only_ my shoulder when his brother got arrested? I was the only one in proximity, of course he cried on me. Marco kissed me? Must have been a cultural thing he never told me about, oh well. Boom. Done. 

__

Then the genie throws a wrench into my very well thought through negations because he’s an absolute dick. 

__

_Did you want the kiss to be a “cultural thing?”_ In my head I picture the genie making overly exaggerated air quotes around the words. I sit on my bed to think it through. My phone dings in my pocket before I can really come to an answer. 

__

**Marco:** WHAT HAPPENED?????? 

__

**Jean:** ????

__

__

**Marco:** Did you take them home ??? :( 

_**  
** _

Marco attaches a picture of his windowsill - sans succulents - and sends it my way with a bunch of question marks. 

__

Shit. 

__

**Jean:** oh my god im so sorry oliver and twist didnt survive the 24 hours you were gone i should’ve told you but i forgot omg im so sorry marco 

__

**Marco:** How did they die? Was it peaceful? 

__

_Peaceful?_ Not even a little bit. They drowned in too much water then were promptly chuck out a window. But I was just gonna tell them about the overwatering part - he doesn’t need to know about the rest of my negligence. 

__

**Jean:** i maaaaayyyy have overwatered them? im really sorry dude i clearly dont have a green thumb :( 

__

**Marco:** :0 

__

**Jean:** i’ll take you shopping for succulents as soon as i can oh my god im so sorry for that dude 

__

**Marco:** hehe it’s okay, Jean. Thanks for telling me the truth :) Don’t worry about replacing Oliver and Twist. I can get succulents any time. 

__

**Jean:** no im buying you more stupidly named succulents dammit we’ll go on saturday and ill buy you all the plants you want because that is what you deserve dude 

__

**Marco:** That’s very nice of you Jean, thank you ^.^ 

__

_God what a dork_ , I think. _Still using emoticons like a kid._ Marco bids me goodnight after a few minutes of us making plants to get Oliver and Twist 2.0, but I end up staring at the screen for a few minutes longer. _Did you want it to be a cultural thing?_ I ask myself again, still held up on the genie’s surprisingly enlightening question. I reach up and gently touch my cheek where Marco’s lips were only a few minutes ago. 

__

_Marco is brave. Marco is kind to a fault. Marco loves more than any one person should be able to. Marco works hard and Marco is smart. Marco laughs at my stupid jokes and watches movies with me even though he can’t hear them. Marco puts the world above himself and you should be fucking praying to the Gods that he’s even in your life. Marco puts too much sugar in his coffee and he wants to be a teacher one day and his voice is beautiful and he loves theater and reading and he loves his family more than just about anything._

____

I decide I would be just fine if it was a cultural thing, Marco kissing me on the cheek. It’s a-okay with me if Marco just wants to be my friend because I am fucking _blessed_ to even know him.

____

But then I decide I would be just as okay ( _if not even more okay_ , the genie snickers) with it being a 100%, gay, _I want you to be my boyfriend one day_ kind of kiss on the cheek. Because I like Marco. I like when he grimaces when he tastes bitter coffee. I like the way his face lights up when he talks about teaching and theater and his family. I like his voice, slurred words and all, and I like his hugs. I just really, _really_ like Marco Bodt. 

____

And I’m surprisingly okay with that. 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification: Marco's mom in TSAS is from Colombia, but his father is American. Similarly, Jean's mother is from France while his father is from the US.  
> Also now you guys know about Jean's dad! This was an emotional rollercoaster to write and I feel physically exhausted now that it's done but I'm so so glad all the pieces are starting to fall together for this fic. I'm thinking four more chapters until the end, but we shall seeeee.


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